The Skirrid, Ysgryd Fawr

I used pictures of bluebells last week partly because they had all vanished around here, just occasional clusters of purple on shaded verges, or north facing woodland slopes. And then we decided to go and climb the first mountain of the year and guess what we found? In late May.

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I’ve got photographs of The Skirrid from various other hills in the Black Mountains and Brecon Beacons but I had never actually climbed it. Sitting apart from the other mountain ranges it looks like a shark’s fin cutting through the lowlands as you approach it from Hereford. It isn’t as high or demanding as many other hills and mountains we have climbed, “an evening stroll” was how Dr J described it and because it took us so long to get organised last week we did indeed come down through dusky woods to find the car park almost empty.

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The Skirrid’s west flank, taken from the car on the way home

The most eye catching object from the car park was a perfect view of the nearby Sugar Loaf showing how it got its name. The initially steep climb through woodland was beautiful, plenty of other people going up and down but the trees were alive with birdsong and constant fleeting feathered movement.

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This was taken in the mountains above Tretower Court last April looking towards the Skirrid, in shadow, from the west; the Sugar Loaf is on the right

I made the classic mistake once we were out on the ridge of thinking we were nearly at the summit, only to climb to a false peak and see the ridge rising on before me, it wasn’t too tiring though as stopping to look up at the skylarks singing out of sight was a constant delight. We had our first picnic break in a sheltered dip on the ridge, looking towards White Castle that we visited three years ago.

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The Skirrid from Whitecastle, looking from the east
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Whitecastle from the Skirrid

This is a fairly small hill by Welsh standards, 1594 feet or 486 metres and it really is a pleasant walk, our seven year old bounded ahead and walked twice as far as she needed to and the three year old didn’t demand a carry until the summit had been reached – although as we found two butterflies of different species chasing each other around the trig point the girls amused themselves in racing after them for a good 15 minutes showing that the walk hadn’t exhausted them nearly enough.

At the top a few scattered stones are all that remains of a medieval chapel and below the peak you can make out the bank and ditch of an Iron Age hillfort. The views in all directions are amazing– you can climb Welsh mountains all year and never be sure of the visibility at the top but we spent a lot of time trying to discern which of the mountains to our west we had climbed before and which we still had to look forward to. To the east May Hill, Bredon Hill and the Malverns were all clear, Clee Hill to the north in Shropshire and some further ridge that we couldn’t name for sure. To the south the Bristol Channel and its islands gleamed in the sun, as did Somerset beyond.

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Looking south to the sea

On the way back we took a short sharp descent that curled around the hill’s northern tip and brought us to a valley between the Skirrid itself and the landslip that occurred in the ice age and gave the mountain its Welsh name, Ysgryd, which means split or shattered. We had the second round of sandwiches here and I could easily spend a day reading or writing in the sheltered grove; the ever shifting light under the trees creating myriad shades of green.

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And then we found the bluebells. I had seen a flash of mauve upon the hill as we drove past at a distance, but thought it could have been grey shale catching the afternoon sun. No. It was a carpet of flowers spreading west towards the Sugar Loaf, although as all my photos were taken into the lowering sun I don’t think I did the views justice.

 

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The mountain itself was stunning – it’s shape, the views for miles in all directions, the perfect weather – then we had the bluebells. And then we had a magical Welsh wood. I’ve posted a few pictures of others that have captivated me – and this one was a total surprise. All my previous favourite Welsh woods have been far further from home in North Wales; to find one a little over an hour from home was astonishing. Sadly by now we were all tired and dusk was falling so we mostly kept marching on with me snapping pictures to all sides and not stopping to ohh and ahhh as much as I would like (okay, yes I was already planning how to get there on my own to fully bask in its beauty sometime, sorry family.)

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This was supposed to have been posted last Thursday and I was going to say “next week is half term so there will be no new blog post as I shall hopefully be out enjoying more family days like this.” In fact my determination to get a good chunk of my latest wip completed before the holiday delayed this post, but I am pleased to say that even with typical British Bank Holiday weather, we have indeed had another wonderful – and wet – walk. I should be back soon with more pictures – and hopefully that sounds more like a promise than a threat.

Guess where I’ve been?

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Back to Wales and one of my favourite places – well several favourite places – but after Castell y Bere, Tywyn, Ynys-Hir, Pennal and the once-in-a-lifetime experience of Corris in the sunshine, I got back to Dolgoch Falls. (OK, maybe it’s sunny in Corris more often than I think, but I always picture it in mist and/or rain. Or low cloud. Seeing it in under blazing blue skies was weird.)

Last time I posted this glade I tried to tie it in to my writingwriting and the way different people, or different information can cloud, or illuminate something we thought we knew. This time I think I’ll let the pictures and the beauty of the seasons speak for themselves.

Dolgoch falls on 25 March 2008, 22 April 2017 and 28 August 2012.

That’s winter, spring and summer captured. Just to get autumn and snow…

Finding your daily squirrel

It is the little moments, sometimes almost unnoticed as they wiz by, that make up a life. And a year. Globally 2016 wasn’t the greatest (nor the worst) but I wanted to remember the positives that happened personally. When I worked in Oxford I had many commutes over the years; but whether walking, sitting in a traffic jam or waiting at a bus stop, the day could be immeasurably brightened by the smallest or silliest of things. The easiest was a squirrel, anytime, anywhere, even rooting through a bin. When you walk the same streets twice a day you can see the infinitesimal changes in gardens and trees, tracking the growth of furry magnolia buds in spring, or hearing the scuffling of your feet get louder every day as more leaves fall in autumn. I’ve been very lucky to work in places where I can walk through parks or have to cross a river to get to work; the sight of tiny brown ducklings makes me smile just remembering it. Little positives are everywhere and finding the ones that lift your spirit every day, is, I think, one of the secrets of life.

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So, after a classic Tangent Alley overlong opening paragraph, here are a few of the things that I had almost forgotten made 2016 sparkle amid the tears and fears. (Quite a few of which are illustrated here in my what we did on our holidays post.)

  • Climbing the first Welsh One Hundred for a few years. My partner Dr J has a book about the highest one hundred mountains in Wales, and in our first year of dating we added several more to his list of those achieved. Small children have hindered such adventurous walks and climbs for a while so this was a great achievement, especially as our 6 year old walked all the way herself (the 2 and a half year old was in a back pack much of the way.)
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The Gruffalo’s Child climbed with us
  • Lots of days on beaches –I think of this as mostly for the kids but I had far too much fun building, and destroying, dams on beaches this year.
  • Many ice creams, even ones that make your tongue go blue.
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Not my tongue
  • Many picnics, in woods, up mountains, in the garden. Everything tastes better outdoors and this was the year I finally got to appreciate tuna mayonnaise.
  • When we gave the girls the choice of what to do on a day out our eldest said “Mummy likes castles and waterfalls best.” I am lucky to have a generous daughter with a great memory – but then  I do go on about it a lot I suspect. This year has indeed been  very rich in castles.

As for waterfalls, I was treated to a wonderful wet walk at Nantcol in Wales, where I fell in a bog and got filthy feet and loved every minute. I looked at the pictures recently and wondered why I was grinning like a fool in every picture, then I remembered, I was having such a perfect day and wanted to be sure the family knew it. It’s a little alarming to realise my happiest face looks so deranged, but hey, they seem to love me anyway.

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  • Having other people be happy is of course one of the very best things that can happen, that’s partly why I think of picnics as being such a highlight of the year; the glee on a small child’s face when you show them you brought their favourite snack is an utter joy. Who knew scotch eggs and pickled onion flavoured crisps were so valuable?

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Sadly this year hasn’t featured as much reading as I would like. It started well with my passion for ancient Greek dram still in full flow, but then I realised those precious two hours when my youngest slept would be better used to write rather than read. As I said,  you have to give up something for writing  and this year it was my reading. I don’t regret it, but I do miss my books and am determined to find some more reading time (tv watching has already gone by the wayside so I think it will have to be bath time, I don’t like showers but they are a bit quicker – or else I have to get used to reading in the bath again. Since I needed reading glasses the steaming up problem and condensation running down my nose has meant it’s not as easy to lose myself in a  book while the bath water goes cold.) Oops, this is supposed to be a positive look back at the year, luckily for me, the few books I did read were excellent and I plan to blog about them later this month.

Speaking of reading though, this was the year I discovered Gimlets, all due to Raymond Chandler. I enjoyed rather more than I should have on sunny evenings, and actually, having just bemoaned the lack of reading time (I think my memory is biased because I’m still reading two books I started in the summer holidays, I know I’m a slow reader but this is ridiculous) I did have a golden patch of reading in the dusky evenings after tea. One memorable night I had to turn on the outside lights as it was so dark but still warm in the garden – sadly the rustling noses by the door when I went in for a top up of my drink put me off staying out too late; mice and gin don’t mix.

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A highlight of any year is a trip to London to see my best friend and visit the theatre. This year even more people will envy me when I confess that I saw Harry Potter and the Cursed Child, all due to the organisational skill and generosity of my friend gemmaw700. That trip also deserves its own post, partly due to my first visit to the revamped Foyles where I could have happily spent the day, but also because I have only once before heard an entire theatre gasp in such shock as they did at one line of dialogue and I can’t remember the last time I cried so much with laughter as I did at one scene – the fact it involved a library was just an added bonus.

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A few other moments that I have been reminded of when looking for photos to accompany this:

  • How many people ever actually have the cliché happen to them of a crab nibbling their toes? I did!
  • And I saw a snow leopard! (Not at the same time as the crab, that would be quite a dream. The leopard was at Dudley Zoo, awaiting a mate, and looking beautifully healthy and content.)
  • I went back to Avebury, one of my favourite places in the world.
  • I discovered  Dunraven Bay and castle, a new favourite place.
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Our broken dam flooding Dunraven beach

One major thing which has brought me pleasure, (and occasionally stress when I’m late, like this week, oops) has been finally starting a blog. OK, so I’m ten years behind other aspiring writers I mixed with back then, most of whom are now published. But the time was right for me in 2016; back then it would just have been another thing to distract me from writing and to then feel guilty and stressed about when it dwindled into nothingness. I haven’t quite stuck to my Thursday posting each week, but I’m still enjoying it and planning to continue.

The main personal achievement last year, and cause of a great amount of happiness and inner glowing, was that I finished writing a book. OK, the first draft. I have completed books before but this one has been written and – especially the last half – finished with such delight and a drive to get the story out there. It still needs work and I’m not happy with all of it, but the overall story and the characters and what they have to go through still move and excite me (rather than the “oh god I don’t know how to finish this book and can’t wait to see the back of these dammed people” feeling which did rather haunt the ending of a couple of previous manuscripts. These are people I want to revisit in editing and make sure I’m doing their story justice, every time I think of the final scene I feel full of trepidatious (is that not a word? It should be) hope and happiness.

None of these miniscule moments of happiness are meant to in any way diminish the things that went wrong in 2016 or the fact that so many people (individually and as nations) are facing an uncertain future. I’m just trying to remember for myself the little moments that make day to day life brighter and better and that give us hope. It’s why authors are continuing to write; because we all want those moments of escape, and the promise of love helping people to thrive. We’re all looking for our daily squirrel.

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How NaNoWriMo has helped me to be a better writer, even though I fail every November

When writing is a struggle, a flutter of wings at the window is a welcome distraction; when it’s going well however, a herd of wildebeest could stampede through the garden and I’d not look up. But how do you get from one stage to the other? I wrote about how long it took me to listen to the best advice about giving things up and carving out regular writing time here, the figures below show just how valuable a routine can be in increasing productivity – but I say “can” because nothing works for every writer, and sometimes it doesn’t work twice for the same writer.

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Tryfan, its top hidden by cloud. Hopefully the image will make sense by the end of this post

Just in case anyone doesn’t know, NaNoWriMo is short for National Novel Writing Month and each year people commit to writing 50 thousand words in the month of November. I have never officially signed up for it, nor come close to achieving it, but the goal of writing every day and concentrating on words written over content has worked well. Previously I was an edit-as-you-go writer, with the result that each day I would look back at the previous day’s efforts, tweak it a little, then ponder what came next, and all too frequently go backwards rather than forwards.

I’ll admit that I scoffed a little when I first heard about NaNo, so many people believing they can write? And writing fast? How can anything of value be created in such a quantity and speed obsessed fashion? People said that writing without looking back or editing was freeing, but I frequently found myself cursing the need to keep an eye on the word counter when I wanted to spend half an hour mulling over a scene and rewriting one paragraph twenty times until I captured exactly the right words and tone and imagery. As I made myself push on – leaving * signs and notes with “rewrite” “find better similes” or “too clunky!” I did at least move on with the plot and too my astonishment on reading back after a month away a lot of it read far better than I remembered it feeling at the time.

Possibly most valuable for me, as someone who has spent hours mulling over the right way to transition from scene to scene and frequently written pages of post and pre scene analysis for my characters where they have internal reflection on what has just happened (and too often just pointlessly repeat it) – the freedom of just ending the scene and writing “later” was astonishing. All too soon a few words flashing forwards or backwards to make sure a passage of time and location was all I needed and I had a story that flowed as naturally as a stream downhill, rather than a forced series of starting and stopping, liked a blocked drain.

Another plus was that where previously I would spend an age thinking about how to introduce a scene or change of subject and would run it back and forth in my mind from different points of view, and would rewrite constantly trying to emphasise different senses and sights and sounds, now I just write the barest essentials to establish place and players and then crack on with action and dialogue, intending to go back and flesh out later – but I frequently find the succinct sketch of the moment and location is all the more evocative for its brevity. Who knew? Making the sharpest of sketches for me was also enough on a later re read; by staying in the moment as I wrote and moving on, rather than coming out of the writing and looking at it critically, I not only kept the plot and word count moving, but I was creating clearer, more precise, moving and intimate moments. (It is possible that this revelation is mine alone, not everyone writes interminable waffle or needs an editor as badly as I do.)

I kept a tally of my word count, and also a few other insights as they occurred, here are some telling ones.

  • Day 1 – The freedom to just write and not worry too much
  • Day 2 – being able to just write “moving on” or “later” rather than agonising over the right way to shift scene or pace – it’s fine to do that esp as these scenes may all end up cut so why agonise now over how to seamlessly joining them?
  • Getting to know the characters by just letting them talk – they keep surprising me with flashbacks and my h is pricklier than I expected – the H is lovely
  • Day 4 – Is this just one long date?!
  • Day 7 – Is this just the world’s longest synopsis? He said, she said, they did – where’s the nuance and unexplained tensions and subtexts, the emotional side? I get at least one paragraph a day which I enjoy where one of them, usually in flashback, paints a picture using many senses that shows us how they have felt about something, but the rest of it is arched or furrowed brows, bitten lips and gleaming glances, urrrgh

In fact, on re reading, I found a lot more than just what they said and did, there is a lot of emotion and a fair amount of description, although not as much as I always like to write. But at least I have the bare bones of an entire book to work on, not the usual 3 and bit chapters that I would have written in that time.

  • My words counts looked like this.
  • 594, 2297, 0, 1,054, 3,050, 2,035, 2,109, 753, 0 & 0 over a family weekend. 3,066, 1,934, 2,702

As you can see, I can write fast when the story is clear in my head (a prerequisite for Nanoing I think. As I wrote before, I looked forward to those hours, longed for them, was plotting all day in my head so that as soon as I fired up the laptop I knew exactly what I wanted to write. I can do about 2K an hour when all is going well although I’ll admit that a serious downside to speed is my typos; it took weeks to spell check the entire manuscript and even longer to correct the first read through.

2014 Nano was stopped by a severe cold that led to a chest infection that still had me coughing by Christmas. 2015 lasted 5 days, I got the word count but wasn’t feeling the story (although a lot of it was useable later) I started again daily in April this year and gradually built myself up to previous writing levels until when the family went away for a weekend I wrote 10,572 in exactly 48 hours. I carried on daily and after 1 month and 5 days I had written 50K words, the most important of which were “The End”.

So, am I for or against NaNoWriMo? As far as November goes, no. But as the spur I needed to get me writing daily and writing forwards rather than always looking back, yes. I have not yet finished the edit and rewrite due to a shift in day to day life, but it’s well under way and a sequel has been started – that may be a serious threat, that the initial first fast draft becomes the pleasant, “easy” bit. The one time I plotted a novel out with scenes, characters, arcs and plot points – I couldn’t write it. Once I knew where it was going I felt no urge to explore the writing of it. I’m hoping that that the editing and rewriting will continue to feel more like polishing a jewel rather than a forced march uphill. Or perhaps the metaphor should be that I hope it will feel a steady, tricky, but rewarding climb up a mountain where the air grows ever clearer and the mists recede until a perfect vista is laid before me, ready to be shared.

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View from the top of Tryfan

If a picture says a thousand words…. I apologise for the size of this blog

Or what we did on our holidays and why there was no blog post last week.

(Only after I posted this did I realise that if you click on any picture you get a slide show, useful when viewing on a phone – only if you’re interested of course :))

First days of sun and beach and gin.

The Roman Steps and shoes that gave up after 25 years.

Rain, waterfalls, misty cobwebs and bogs.

Gales and castles.

Burial Chambers, birds, bridges and beaches at dusk.

Goodbye Wales for another year.

Where orchids now grow

The sheared off wall of golden stone loomed out of the trees with no warning, its naked window frames reaching like broken fingers through strangling masses of ivy. A sight as abruptly alarming in this mist wreathed wood as a shark’s fin cutting through the surface of a boating pond.

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The first rule of exploring was that you veered off the main track at every fork or side turning. Most led to padlocked gates or narrowed into woodland paths barely big enough for a fox to follow. The second rule of exploring was that it was always the eldest sister who investigated first and she was already slipping her feet out of the stirrups and handing her reins to her younger sister. She too, however, was quick to dismount. It was easier to control two ponies from the ground and besides, it felt wrong to remain mounted while her sister was going exploring, even if the taste of chocolate in her mouth was suddenly making her feel sick.

“What is it?”

“A church, stupid.”

“Yes, but, why?”

She watched her sister pick her way carefully among gravestones tumbled like discarded dominoes, many were flat on the ground, others leaning precariously against their neighbours, barely any still intact.

She wanted to call out “Is it safe?” But since when had that been a concern for her sister? She looked up again at the end wall of the church, golden Cotswold stone turned wraith-grey in the drizzle and mist that coiled around the ruin in a duel with the choking ivy.

Earlier in the day the sun had made them curse the cheap, heavy waterproof coats they were wearing. The very first side track had led to a small cutting at the side of the path, as if someone had taken a giant ice cream scoop to the crumbling rock of the steep hillside. An old quarry said the younger girl and after loosening the ponies’ girths and taking off their coats she had searched for fossils among the tumbled limestone and primroses. Her sister had tugged old flimsy branches into the clearing, at first with the idea of making jumps for the ponies and then to form a barricade.

“We could come here often and untack the ponies, let them have a proper break while we explore.”

Images of picnics and adventures as in all her favourite pony books fired the younger sister and she joined in gathering armfuls of long brittle grass to leave to dry like hay for a future visit and patted it into comfy cushions on a ledge where they sat and ate their sandwiches, sharing the apple cores with the ponies and devouring Lion Bars.

The next clearing they found was directly on the main track, neatly stacked piles of wood showed it was for logging. The usual arguments ensued as the elder girl moved wood obviously intended for sale into improvised jumps and the younger one tried to measure the ground for a dressage arena. It was just large and flat enough to canter an egg shaped circle. After their own pony had had enough and tried to canter for home, and borrowed, tired old Sam gave up after half a circuit at a trot, they moved on into the denser woods.

The track wound up and down, never following the contour of the hill for long, they manged a few hare-brained canters with the ponies’ hooves squelching through mud or ringing out alarmingly loud where the path became stony. Gradually the track narrowed and a walk was as fast as they could go, the trees crowded in on either side and branches whipped their faces making them duck low over the ponies’ necks. The sun had withdrawn behind ominous clouds and the closer barricade of branches and leaves trapped the steamy air around them and made them sweat while they shivered.

The younger girl had suggested turning back several times. Her sense of direction was better and she knew if they came to a road it would be a long slow ride home, and if they didn’t come to a road they were definitely lost. And then came yet another side track on their right; narrow, twisting, yet very well worn.

Without a word, the elder sister urged her pony to scramble up the bank and then on through smaller scratchy shrubs, and then to a sudden halt.

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The wall in front of them was obviously that of a church. The tall pointed shape, the high arching windows even with no glass in them. One side wall joined it, the opposite one was a tumble of rubble, moss covered stones rolled among the drunken gravestones. There was no roof, and no slates scattered among the debris, roof beams lay crumbled in the interior of the church like the staved in ribs of a crushed animal.

“Your turn.”

While she had stood with their tired ponies she had felt annoyance at having to wait; now she felt no eagerness to explore. “Is here much to see?”

“Go and look.” There was the perennially frustrated voice of an older braver sister.  So she went, picking her way among the crumbling graves, craning her head to see the grey scudding clouds through the tree canopy, somehow looking everywhere but at the gutted church with its blind window frames that seemed instead to be watching her. No wind reached through the dense wood, yet the trees rustled and sighed behind her.

She finally peered through the doorway but couldn’t try to push past the piles of fallen masonry and saplings thrusting their way up the length of the nave. How long would a place have to be empty before plants took root, or pushed through the stone floor that must surely have been there?

Stepping back out into the wood she gulped in the moist air, and tasted smoke; through the trees she saw more walls and heard a dog. A cottage, as dark and dreary as the ruin, carved wooden eaves that belonged on a gingerbread cottage dripped dankly, drab curtains hid the inside, as if the grime covering the windows weren’t enough to shut out the dismal day.

She scurried back to her sister. “We should go.”

“Why?”

“Someone might see us.”

“And?”

“I don’t think we should be here.”

Her sister wanted to explore further but the dog barked again and they heard a door slam and soon were back in their saddles and hurrying to the main track. Without a word the older girl turned left and back home the way they had come, their thirst for exploring and adventure quenched for now, the warmth and comforting smell of damply steaming ponies gradually making everything normal again.

That evening they asked their parents if they knew about the church in the wood. They didn’t and had never walked that way, but the location rang a bell with their father. He searched a local history book and found reference to the grand house in the Ridings, built in the 1820s and pulled down a little over a century later in the 1930s, only the lodge houses and church in the woods being left. Their father remembered a friend from the pub who had talked about it and attended the auctions when the house was dismantled; he had bought some beams from the house to use in his farm’s barns.

A few days letter a very formal letter arrived telling the girls that their permit to ride in the nearby woods did not cover the Ridings. It was a shock. They had been seen by someone, and recognised. They had only recently discovered that they needed a permit for the other woods and knew that very few of their horse riding friends had bothered to apply for one; to now be chastised for their exploring seemed deeply unfair.

They never went back. Not with their ponies. Sometimes the younger sister would think of those armfuls of grass they had so eagerly and optimistically gathered to dry. It would all have blown or mouldered away, or maybe been used as nests by mice or birds.

Many years later they went that way again, with their parents, the jumping clearing had more coppiced wood stacked in it and they walked on, keen to reach the ruined church.

Which wasn’t there.

No stones, no beams, no carved window frame remained. Just a large stone cross on its side in a bank of earth to record the church that had once stood there. The cottage gleamed with fresh paint and a new conservatory and well-tended gardens that reached back into the woods where the graveyard had once been. Not one gravestone remained.

They were following a map, sure not to be caught out for trespassing or being off the beaten track. As they struck out across the fields that had once been the parkland for the vanished  country house the younger girl kept looking back, as if hoping to see one wall of the church still poking through the woods and beckoning her as it had years before.

They’ve walked that way once or twice since; it’s a picturesque if long way to a good country pub. One time the younger sister walked it with just her mother and they found bee orchids growing in the logging clearing. Brambles and saplings were reclaiming the cleared ground, the few piles of cut wood were crumbled and past being of any use except to hedgehogs and woodlice as a home. There wasn’t room to canter a circle now and she fleetingly wondered how many precious plants they had sliced apart with their long dead ponies’ steel shod hooves.

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She persuaded her mother to turn back soon after that, she couldn’t bear to walk past where the church that once frightened and awed her in the mist should have been.  Where long forgotten graves slept silently beneath the whispering branches. They took away all the gravestones, but what about the graves, what about the bodies?

She wishes they had been left to crumble, alone.

Poised on the border between the known and the unknown

This was a (mis)quote about the universe, but is also a perfect description of falling in love; of that pivotal moment where all out previous experiences of love and loss are balanced against the unknown possibilities in this new love before us.

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It could also describe the feeling when we pick up a new romance to read – or start to write one. There is the history of all romances read and written before, if it is a category romance there is a defined word count and a restricted cast of leading characters (depending on whether it’s a Presents or a Western for example.) Readers and writers have a wealth of research and past knowledge and experience to draw upon – but how that story will play out, the twists and turns of plot, the depth of character, the sights, sounds and scents of the location will be something new, and hopefully, something amazing.

I’m sorry if I have managed to repeat myself already in only two months on this blog about the infinite variety and possibility contained in romance novels; it’s the cumulative effect of years on line seeing romances denigrated by non-readers, interviewers, other authors and even those who have ridden the coat tails of romance to financial and popular acclaim and then want to say “oh my books aren’t really romance.” Fine, not everyone has to like or read romance, there are many genres I don’t read, but I see no point in singling them out or putting them down – especially when I have no knowledge of them – and I would never try to sell my books on that genre, nor pour disdain on its readers.

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This photograph was taken on the same day as the other two standing stone pictures and shows how quickly Welsh weather can change

I didn’t plan to write any of that, but it’s some of the thoughts inspired by seeing Professor Brian Cox in the snow talking about the centuries of research, speculation and experimentation that have formed theories about the nature and origins of the universe. (I am paraphrasing, and badly as I wasn’t paying total attention.) Scientists now stand on that knife edge with history behind them and the vast unknowable universe before us waiting to be explored. Just as a reader opens that first page and waits to see what fresh characters and intriguing situation will cast a new light on the tale of falling in love and earning a happy ending against the odds.

It’s why humans keep on trying new romances even after disastrous break ups. I ended up single and celibate for almost five years after too many broken hearts (mine and other people’s), but eventually the pain had faded enough and someone offered a fresh view of the possibilities ahead; I reluctantly took a few hesitant steps and low and behold fell in love all over again, almost against my will (certainly against reason) and am still marvelling at it (and never taking it for granted) today.

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And what has any of this got to do with standing stones? I wrote a blog last week about castles (not posted yet due to the heart breaking stories in the news, I’m hoping I’m not tempting fate posting this one with its title on the day the UK votes whether or not to remain part of the EU.) In that blog I tried to explain how it is the love of the unknown in ruined castles and ancient monuments that inspires me – as a story teller and as a visitor puzzling over clues left by people long gone. I love reading about the history as well, but it is more the untold story that fires my soul and makes me return again and again to some sites.

One such place is Avebury (the solstice this week also made my mind take this particular tangential trip down memory lane, with my by now familiar clumsy attempts to tie it to romance.) I first saw Avebury no older than ten on a frosty morning. I have seen it in rain and sun and have always been awed by the mystery and majesty of the place. And been baffled and amused by the village that was built centuries later slap in the middle of this unique landscape; a very British piece of practical vandalism – why not build houses near a handy pre-quarried source of stone and with nice earthworks to keep animals in? Our attitude of veneration and conservation now shudders at what was done just a few hundred years ago – a fraction of the life span of these ancient sites – but what will future generations think? About the sites, about the recent past, about our twenty-first century views? Which will be laughable, which valued, and which utterly incomprehensible?

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Avebury on a sunny day when it was impossible to take pictures of stones without people in the background – or foreground

So much about these ancient sits will be forever a mystery; we will always be on that knife point of knowledge and the unfathomable. And for me that is the main part of their charm. Maybe that goes for falling in love too; I’m hoping for happy ever after but I know it’s not guaranteed or easy, and it’s never boring. Which applies even more to the books I love to read, and write.