PRIMROSES AND CHOCOLATE SAUCE

THIS IS A TIME for sharing, so today as well as having reduced the price of my first book ‘Losing Time’ to just under half price, I’m going to publish an old family recipe for everyone to enjoy. We all need treats at a time like this.

This recipe, for Chocolate Sauce to be poured over Ice Cream, originated from a friend of my mother’s and I’ve forgotten how long ago I first began to use it. You need to be quick at serving it, because it turns to a kind of toffee when the hot sauce hits the freezing ice cream.

The method is simple and you need only three basic ingredients:

• Butter – approx. 60 gm (2 oz)
• Golden Syrup – approx. 1 – 2 large tablespoons
• Cocoa (not drinking chocolate) – approx. 1 – 2 large tablespoons
• Optional: a few drops of vanilla essence

The measurements are approximate, because I have never actually written this down before. This quantity will serve about 3 people, depending upon how greedy you are.

This is what you do: simply measure all the ingredients into a small saucepan and heat gently, stirring all the time until a smooth, warm sauce appears. Be careful not to cook for too long, because it will go like glue and be useless.
Pour immediately over bowls of very cold ice cream – any flavour will do, but simple vanilla is gorgeous. Serve at once!

PRIMROSES AND THE GARDEN

The garden is awash with primroses again this year. Our lawn, springy with moss, has had its first mow – simply because its rampant growth needed to be curtailed. The blossom on the ornamental cherry has just about faded and fallen, but the huge Camelia bush has surprised us with a riot of pink blooms. There is much to do when the weather improves. I tried edging a flower bed the other day, but the soil is claggy and heavy with moisture, and my knees became quite soggy as dampness seeped through my garden kneeler. I gave up!



BOOKS TO READ

Should you need book recommendations (other than ‘Losing Time’ of course,) I have read three excellent novels so far this year. I can recommend all three:

• The City of Brass by S. A. Chakraborty – a fantasy novel. My review in brief: ‘This is an extraordinary book! If you love fantasy and are tempted by something completely different, a breath of 'Arabian Nights' meets Scheherazade but even more fantastic, then - like me - you won't be able to put this down.’ 
• Bury Them Deep by James Oswald – a thriller. The tenth in an unforgettable series of suspense thrillers. Unputdownable!
• The Long Call by Ann Cleeves – a thriller. This is the first in a new series by popular writer Ann Cleeves. It is based in North Devon, and wonderfully written, a powerful novel.

Of course, if you haven’t read LOSING TIME why not give it a try – but hurry, because the offer is only for a short time. Here’s the link https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B016X4HXCE

These are dark times for some of us, and the tip of the iceberg for a few. Here are a couple of lines which have brought me comfort in the past, and I hope they will help you too.

A brief quote from Shelley: 

'O Wind,

If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?'

And this from Dame Julian of Norwich (b. 1342):

“All shall be well, and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.”

REMEMBERING ROSES

WHILST this Winter has not been particularly cold, its soaking dreariness seems to have lasted for months. News is bad, spirits are downcast… I want to try and bring a little beauty into our lives. Their wonderful scent cannot be shared, but I can talk about roses…

When we moved to this house five years ago, I was determined to bring roses into the rather bare garden. I could easily have planted duplicates of the ones I left behind, but with a couple of exceptions I decided to take advantage of the opportunity to choose new ones. Time has passed, and on the whole my roses have flourished, but I still feel nostalgic for the ones I left in my tiny garden in Mid-Devon.

William Lobb is a rose I first heard of from famous rose-grower Cyril Fletcher. I wanted a moss rose, something old-fashioned and highly scented, and sure enough this flourished on a trellis from the word go. Planted in 1989, when I left it in 2014 this rose had matured and spread right across the trellis and beyond.

I chose not to plant it again, because it only flowers once and not for very long. This photo (left) is from June 2010.

One rose I have planted again is 'Compassion' which I first came across in my Uncle's garden at Oxford. It's not the healthiest of roses, and it doesn't really like it here, but the scent is quite breathtaking.  In the photo (in my old garden) it mingles with Paul's Himalayan Musk, a strong and rampant climber which can be a bit of a thug and is very thorny. The combination worked extremely well at the cottage, but I'm in two minds about Paul's Himalayan Musk, as it's quite a lot of work to keep under control, although again it is sweetly scented.

Starlight Express (left) is an unscented rose. I seldom choose a plant without scent, but the colour was so gorgeous and this rose grew incredibly fast and well.

Spirit of Freedom (right) is, in contrast, a highly scented rose. The full-blown flower head must be seen in all its glory before the petals fall, because they all fall at once, forming a carpet of rose-confetti... 

To end this little essay on roses, I must share with you a wonderful poem which is centuries old, but which illustrates the timeless beauty of the flower.

Extract from: ‘On New-blown Roses’ by Decimus Magnus Ausonius (c. 310 - c. 395 AD) – a Roman poet. Translation: Helen Waddell, 1948

Spring, and the sharpness of the golden dawn.

Before the sun was up a cooler breeze

had blown, in promise of a day of heat,

and I was walking in my formal garden,

to freshen me, before the day grew old.

I saw the hoar frost stiff on the bent grasses,

sitting in fat globes on the cabbage leaves,

and all my Paestum roses laughing at me,

dew-drenched, and in the East the morning star,

and here and there a dewdrop glistening white,

that soon must perish in the early sun.

Think you, did Dawn steal colour from the roses,

or was it new born day that stained the rose?

To each one dew, one crimson, and one morning,

to star and rose, their lady Venus one.

Mayhap one fragrance, but the sweet of Dawn

drifts through the sky, and closer breathes the rose.

WINTER REMEDIES

My uncle had a wonderful remedy for a heavy cold, which involved dark rum and a red-hot poker! Not that he ever demonstrated, sadly, but on his sound advice I have found the liberal addition of dark rum to hot milk at bedtime certainly assists sleep.

Uncle Douglas spent most of WWII in a prisoner-of-war camp in Germany. Perhaps it was before his capture, or after his release that this story came about, but at some point he encountered some Russians who were in possession of a bottle of dark rum… As he related it, they would pour rum into mugs/flagons/steins, then warm a poker in a roaring fire until it was red hot. The poker would then be plunged into the rum. I can only imagine the steaming, hissing and sizzling reaction, and the smell of hot rum must have been wonderful! I’m not sure if milk came into this story at all – it seems to me that the Russians simply drank down the hot rum neat to cure their colds!

I may have written before about the debilitating effect of colds, and this one has rounded off a wet and thoroughly miserable January in perfect character. I’m fighting the onset of a chest infection, but that’s another story, and I may be winning. Copious mugs of hot lemon and honey - to which rum may also be added - have undoubtedly helped.

My January reading was as indifferent as the weather, until I discovered a new (to me) author. Peter Grainger writes crime novels set on the Norfolk coast, and his writing is a cure in itself. I reviewed the first in a series ‘An Accidental Death’, giving it five stars:

‘Some books are written in such a way that you know you will come back to them when all else fails - and this is one of them.
Peter Grainger - a new author to me - gently and subtly takes the reader's hand and guides the way like an old friend, with beautifully crafted prose. Add to this some unusual and truly likeable characters, an excellent plot, and reading doesn't get much better. I loved this, and have immediately started to read the next one in the series.’

A good book is an essential part of recovering from winter ailments. I usually return to an old favourite, but this time I’ve been lucky find a substitute and I’m now racing through the series.

I can only view the garden from the window at the moment, and its bleak contours are lifted by the amusing ‘blackbird wars’ which never end in and around this part of their territory. Birds are at risk at this time of the year, especially when the temperature drops and food is scarce. As well as one of my blackbirds, I leave you with R's lovely photo of a little Goldcrest on a cold morning, and an extract from Thomas Hardy's poem 'The Darkling Thrush' which so wonderfully describes the month about to end...

'I leant upon a coppice gate

When Frost was spectre-gray,

And Winter’s dregs made desolate

The weakening eye of day.

The tangled bine-stems scored the sky

Like strings of broken lyres,

And all mankind that haunted nigh

Had sought their household fires.'

COMFORT AND JOY – AMIDST THE CONFUSION OF 2019

2019, as we reach the last day, seems to have been a year of political, national and global confusion. I won’t linger on any of these aspects, which are far too gloomy. Instead I’d like to share with you some of my own highlights.

First of all: the BEST THREE BOOKS of 2019. I read every day, and managed to get through 70 books this year – a few less than in 2018, but remember that during the earlier part of the year, my eyesight wasn’t really up to ‘binge reads’.  I am almost addicted to crime novels and thrillers, so the three I have chosen will not be a surprise! I've provided links to the books on Goodreads, so that anyone interested can investigate further.

My favourite read was ‘Natural Causes’ by James Oswald.

Here is my review:

‘Some people are put off reading crime novels when an element of the supernatural is introduced – but I am not one of them. Quite the opposite, especially when the ‘dark side’ is not overwhelming but written in such a way as to be credible – which in this book is beautifully carried off. ‘Natural Causes’ is James Oswald’s first novel in a series featuring the eminently engaging Inspector Mclean, and I can’t believe I’ve taken this long to discover such an excellent author. The narrative is careful, almost casually well crafted, with the reader sliding effortlessly into Mclean’s Edinburgh-based world – a softer, and more tolerable background than that featured in Ian Rankin’s books.

I loved this book. It’s a gritty story, leaving little to the imagination, yet skillfully manipulating the reader through the worst of the crime scenes and back into Mclean’s day-to-day world, where humour and some instantly likeable colleagues make this such a compelling read.’

Next up was 'The Stranger Diaries' by Elly Griffiths.

This was an unusual and compelling read, a ‘Gothic/suspense/crime novel’ which I would not hesitate to recommend.

And finally: 'The Comforts of Home' by Susan Hill. This is the ninth in an excellent series of beautifully written crime novels by the author better known for ‘The Woman in Black’.

FAVOURITE PHOTOS taken in 2019 are far more difficult to select, and readers of this blog will be familiar with my garden photos. Therefore, I’ve chosen a couple from wonderful places we visited this year.

This view of part of the Rock of Gibraltar (taken from the other end) looking out towards Spain is one which lingers in my memory. My third trip to the Rock in September proved even more enjoyable than the others, and it's a place where I could quite happily live, were it not for the traffic which has increased beyond belief. Every Gibraltarian taxi driver complained about it! The Rock is just another example of a place where the infrastructure is not keeping up with increasing population demands. But for a peaceful and restful holiday all this can be avoided by climbing or riding to the top and walking. The views are quite breathtaking.

Closer to home, Brentor is one of my favourite places on Dartmoor - as those of you who have read 'Stopping Time' will already know. We climbed to the top in July on a glorious breezy day, totally unlike the windswept rain-drenched visit of my book.

Finally, I cannot wish you all a 'HAPPY NEW YEAR' without a flower photo to lift the gloom of December. From a warm day in May, here is one of my roses...

CALENDARS

I know I’m getting older, but… when did Advent Calendars stop being for children and morph into expensive and sometimes ridiculously extravagant self-gifts for adults? As my cousin wrote this morning: ‘What is with these hundred-pound-plus beauty advent calendars? Have we gone completely crazy?’

It's a stretch to go back to my childhood these days, but I vividly remember the excitement generated in our home by my parents handing out Advent Calendars. Each had a Christmassy picture printed on to a foolscap (sorry… A4-ish) sheet of card, with the usual little doors cut into the scene and numbered. Every day the opening of a door revealed a little picture, and I can still feel the delight, and hear the loud proclamations from my younger brother that his was the best. Sometimes the numbers were hard to find, hidden in the detail of the Calendar. The pictures were very simple: robins, holly, lights, a church… but the best was always the last on Christmas Eve: a Nativity scene hidden behind a larger, or perhaps even double doors.

At some point Advent Calendars became more complicated and chocolates replaced the pictures hidden behind the doors. I suppose this heralded their transformation into adulthood. I’m not yearning for the past, but my nostalgia for a simpler, less self-indulgent lifestyle can’t be swept away by today’s richer offerings.

*

A year ago, as I was recovering from my first cataract operation, choosing and sending Christmas cards and gifts was a struggle. This year sees a new ‘normal’ and I threw myself into the task with renewed enthusiasm. And this year everyone in the family is getting a personalised calendar! I started with a ‘Family History’ version for M, which led to a ‘Cars and Old Family Photos’ one for my brother. I sorted through hundreds of old photos to arrive at suitable choices for each month of the year 2020. I spent several days wading through childhood scenes, prompting memories and even dreams of our childhood, before reaching December. Even my computer seems to have been taken with the idea, for some inexplicable reason seizing upon this old photo of C, (which incidentally my transfer from a slide has mirror-imaged) and making it the start-up photo when I log into Windows!

The rest of the family will receive smaller calendars with ‘Garden Scenes’ taken from my huge collection, some of which are visible on my website (here: https://www.prfordauthor.com/gallery). Once these were complete and saved to a ‘basket’, the printing company was keen for me to purchase a variety of other gifts, all sporting my photos. Soon, little magnet calendars, cards and a mouse mat were also in the ‘basket’. I’m a sucker for this kind of thing, and was easily drawn into such temptation! However, the results have been well worth the effort, and I can only hope that the members of my family will appreciate their calendars as much as I have enjoyed making them.

Roll on the next round of tasks: the Christmas cards. Oh, and I almost forgot to tell you: I'm also knitting everyone a scarf... 

STAMMERING

Listening to the author David Mitchell on the radio this morning, I pricked up my ears when he began to describe his ‘speech defect’. I would never have known that this articulate man, from whom words poured so easily, has a stammer. He described some of the problems he suffered at school: dreading being asked a question in class, or to read aloud. Even the social situation of being asked whether he would like tea or coffee became a challenge, because coffee was his preference, but tea was easier to say without stammering.

At school the smallest difference becomes a focal point for other children to seize upon. Not only did I have red hair and an unusual name, but I wore glasses from the age of five. Easily identified, not only was I the butt of jokes, but was forever being singled out by teachers. I was lucky, because I could answer their questions easily, and I didn’t mind reading aloud. Heaven help me though, if I was caught doing something wrong. Sometimes I felt guilty, even when I wasn’t!

The character Daniel Kettlewell stepped into my latest book ‘Stopping Time’ quite unexpectedly. I’ve worked with stammerers in the past, and the memory of one particular man – who had risen to a senior position despite a very bad stammer indeed - gave me the confidence to include such a person in the book. Not that I had much choice - my characters tend to insist on their inclusion, haunting my thoughts until I begin to define them.

Daniel is definitely one of my favourite characters. He doesn’t play a leading role, but he’s a solid, reliable young man, whose stammer has given him patience and understanding.

‘Helen recognised him at once as Daniel, another accountant she’d come across when attending work-related seminars. He spoke with a bad stammer, but they sometimes conversed over coffee, as fellow social misfits.’

It was important too for Daniel’s interaction with other characters to be as true to life as possible.

‘Julia considered how difficult it might be for him to describe what had occurred. ‘No,’ she corrected herself, feeling a little guilty at the thought, ‘it’s no problem for him - just so painful to listen to.’ '

Stammering is one of those afflictions which tend to be most noticeable - and most keenly felt - in childhood. There are methods of relaxing to ease the frequency of the stammer, and I believe singing can be of benefit. If you are affected by a speech defect, or know someone who is struggling, there is a good deal of useful information on the internet as well as this link to an article by David Mitchell, to whom I referred at the beginning of my blog: https://www.prospectmagazine.co.uk/magazine/david-mitchell-stammering-kings-speech

***

Here we are in November already, with a waterlogged lawn that needs a final mow, the central heating turned on and an election looming. Gloomy stuff indeed, but on the odd sunny day the air is fresh and the smell of wood smoke nostalgic. And I almost forgot to mention the trees... not quite as good as last year, so my photo is of a glorious scene along the road into Okehampton a year ago.

LOSING FRIENDSHIP

For some time now my blog posts have been intermittent and peppered with more photos than words. Two eye (cataract) operations have been responsible for this, and whilst I have emerged from those procedures with exciting new vision, the delay between them (seven months) and something intangible has caused a permanent severe dry eye condition. This is manageable, but it results in blurring and watering of my right eye which are exacerbated by too much time spent on my computer. Hence a drop in all forms of writing! But now it’s time to try and remedy the blog situation, and I begin with writing about a subject which has been hovering on my mind for some time: friendship.

Friendships are formed throughout our lives, beginning in early childhood. They can blossom out of random events and pure chance.From sitting next to a fellow pupil in school to participating in mutually enjoyed games and hobbies, they begin easily for children – and can end equally quickly when loyalties are tested or distances imposed. As we mature, at some point we become more discriminatory about friends. We recognise qualities in ourselves which we enjoy finding in others – and sometimes turn our backs on possible friendships with those who we unconsciously deem to be outside that perception. Perhaps, in so doing, we lose out – but such decisions can be life-changing.

So, at what point does a friendship cease to exist? Distance is no longer the impediment it used to be, thanks to the internet and new, easy methods of communication. These have assisted in the creation of thousands of new friendships worldwide which would not have been remotely possible even thirty years ago. I have several really good friends who I have never physically met, and the same can probably be said for many of you reading this. No, I’m talking about the point where you start to realise that the relationship can no longer be called ‘friendship’. The moment when you think: ‘Why am I pursuing this? What do I – any longer - have in common with this person?’ The time you decide to call it a day, because people have changed.

I hesitate to introduce a personal illustration here, but I feel I must. So here it is, and the reason I can describe it in this blog is because the ‘friend’ will never read it, and this saddens me because she has been a staunch supporter of my writing throughout the production of my books. This person, let’s call her Sheila, has been in my life since 1974 – which is a really long time for a friendship to last. We met when both of us were studying to become Chartered Accountants, at a ‘crammer’ type institution in North Wales. I would need to write another book about Sheila and her misadventures, for you to gain some insight into her character, but we were drawn together by circumstances and chance, and a fondness grew between us which time failed to quench. Godchildren were born and shared, and both fate and careers took us in different directions and locations.

So, what happened, you may ask? I’m not sure. Maybe it’s more a case of what didn’t happen. We were never alike, and our lives took very different paths. Ten years ago, she celebrated a landmark birthday with a large party which I and my husband and son (her godson) were ‘commanded’ to attend. Such things are logistically difficult when a distance of one hundred and fifty miles of awful roads intervenes, but we managed it despite the cost, staying overnight in a Travelodge. Was it worth it? Not really. We didn’t know the majority of the guests, and we felt like outsiders. It was lovely to see her children after a long gap in their lives, and to meet young grandchildren. Sheila herself seemed in a daze, and where before she and I would have jumped straight into old and familiar conversations, our exchanges were stilted; so much history between us seemed to have died.

Ten years later, and another party invitation was issued last month. I mulled it over. During that time we had seen Sheila once, and she virtually ignored my husband for the duration of the visit. This did not go down well at all, and he declared his complete unwillingness to see her again. Ever. Should I go alone, brave the journey and turn up for old times’ sake, one eye watering from its dry condition rather than tears of emotional reunion? Would she even recognise me this time? NO. (Bizarrely, when I typed the word just now, it capitalised itself.) This friendship hasn’t died, so much as lapsed from lack of use. It’s still there, waiting to be used for Christmas cards. Instead of going I sent a small silver brooch as a birthday present signifying the connection between us of times shared.

A true friend, my husband assures me, is someone in whom you can confide, trust, share laughter and – at times – sorrow. You feel sadness when you say goodbye, and joy at reunion. When these qualities have gone, disappeared over time and change, what is left? Perhaps only memories, but if they are happy ones of smiles and laughter, giggling over stupid and long-forgotten fun, then life has been enriched...