Word Wenches

Reflect and resolve . . .

Resolutions. Tradition calls for us to use New Year's Day to take stock of ourselves and write down some new goals and resolutions for the coming year. If you're like me, the same ones seem to pop to mind with slightly ominous—yet optimistic—regularity.Yes, yes, this will definitely be the year when I will magically remain at my ideal weight no matter how many chocolate bars I consume.

Happy New Year

Here's my wish to all our readers for a lovely, peaceful, healthy new year!

In looking around for images, it seems new year's cards were popular right after the beginning of the twentieth century. I can't find anything earlier. So I poked around a  bit more and discovered that the first celebration of January 1 as the new year (previously, most people used the winter solstice or March 1) was about 153 BC. January had only been around a few hundred years at that point, and the efficient Romans chose January 1 as the beginning of their civil year--a good time for a holiday, obviously! 

So enjoy the new year as merrily as these gentleman, then curl up with a good book and stay warm.

      

A Guid New Year to You

Susan here, bringing a Scottish spin to the upcoming New Year’s celebration with a little bit of Hogmanay. 

It’s a strange word, and its origins remain a mystery. The Scottish term for New Year’s is very old, first recorded in a 15th century document as “Hagnonayse” and in common use in Scotland by 1600. No one knows what the word means, even the Scots. It may derive from the French, possibly from aguilleneuf or from hoguignane, which in Northern (Norman) French meant gift or new year’s gift. Others think Hogmanay derives from the Old Saxon “Haleg monath” for “holy month.” (The Scots and French had an Auld Alliance, so that's a possible origin ... but knowing how the medieval Scots felt about the Saxons, I wouldn't put my money on that one.) 

It could stem from the Gaelic oiche mhadainn or og mhadainn (good morning or new morning). When said aloud, it's not far from "hogmanay." Or it could have come from the Vikings, whose influence was so strong in Scotland - the Scots used the Norse-derived “Yule” for the season rather than “Christmas.” The Old Norse phrase “hoggo-nott” refers to the winter solstice celebration at Yule. In Scotland, the December solstice is more closely associated with the New Year than Christmas Day.

Hogmanay and New Year's was the big end-of-year thing in Scotland; for hundreds of years, Christmas was not celebrated in Scotland, having been banned by the Protestants in the 16th century. Even in the 20th century, shops and businesses were open in many parts of Scotland, although Scottish Catholics continued to observe Christmas. (This lack of Christmasy sentiment in Scotland is a challenge when attempting to write Scottish historical Christmas stories!).  

Old Hogmanay customs usually involved fire, noisemaking and wild celebrations to purify the old year's energies and scare off evil spirits. Young Scottish men would dress as “guisers” and run through villages wearing animal skins and banging on drums and kettles and blowing horns. Yule in Scotland went on for days with revelry, dances, and gift-giving. Twelfth Night, the end of the Yuletide, was often enthusiastically celebrated in Scottish households, with a king and a queen determined by finding beans hidden in a cake.

The Hogmanay tradition of the First Footer is probably best known: the first person to set foot in the house after the chime of midnight can bring luck, good or bad, to the household. A handsome young dark-haired man was most fortunate, with redheads and blonds the least lucky – a throwback to the threat of Viking invaders.

“Auld Lang Syne” comes to the world from the Scots, and no New Year’s Eve celebration is complete without it. Robert Burns patched the best known version together from an old melody and traditional verses, adding a couple of new verses of his own.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
And never brought to mind? 
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
And auld lang syne!

Here's a version sung by Dougie MacLean, who this year sang "Auld Lang Syne" to close the Commonwealth Games in Glasgow, streamed to possibly a billion people in 71 countries! 

Bliadhna Mhath Ur! A Guid New Year! May 2015 be kind to each of you!

Susan

P.S. If you'd like to read a Hogmanay novella, try my story "The Snow Rose," currently available in the e-book anthology Christmas Roses, with Mary Jo Putney and Pat Rice!

What the Animals Got for Christmas

I don't forget the animals at Christmas. They may not know what's going on, but they know it involves food.

If I left them out of the festivities, the dog would gaze at me sadly, wondering how she'd failed me. What she'd done wrong.  
The cat would stomp over and bite my ankles.

So they both got finely chopped chicken served to them in a lordly dish with much crooning and praise.

Up there's the cat in her accustomed cat-coma, sleeping off Christmas dinner, cat version.
I didn't buy her any toys. She turns her nose up at toys.

And to the right here is the dog, slightly more alert than the feline. Note the new squeaky toy. It's blue. It has eyes. And spots. And three (count 'em three!!) air bladders inside, each squeaking at a different note. The dog has a high old time playing tunes on it.

Outside is the accustomed tribute for the birds. Sunflower seeds. Only the best for my feathered friends.

The dog is grateful.

The cat, as usual, accepts my tribute.

Who knows what birds feel?

A special gift

Anne here, hoping you all enjoyed the festive season.

I ended up giving myself an unexpected but very special gift this year. Some of you will remember my lovely Chloe-dog (she of the red feather boa) who died in 2011. I haven't been able to make myself get another dog since then, but last week I was noodling around on the internet and I came across this image. https://www.petrescue.com.au/listings/335294 

Yes, it was that look in her eyes that did it, even though I hadn't planned to get a dog yet. I phoned up and made an appointment to go down and meet her and also be interviewed as a suitable owner. It was a three hour drive, but I enjoy driving, and it's summer here and the weather was perfect so it was a lovely little excursion. 

I drove down and met her. She's wiggly and snuggly and sweet-natured and affectionate and eager to please, and we bonded immediately.  I wasn't able to take her home straight away — they have a rule that says all rescue dogs must be neutered, so she's going to be spayed tomorrow and I'll pick her up and bring her home a day or two later.

 I'm calling her Millie because Amelia, while a lovely name, isn't the sort of name to be yelled across an oval or a dog park.

Christmas Games

Christmas games have a long tradition, stretching back beyond the parlour games and charades of Jane Austen’s time. In the Victorian era there were a vast number of games books published and playing Christmas games became something of an obsession. These days of course many of the games have migrated onto the computer.

In my childhood home we didn’t play games at Christmas or any other time. My mother loathed things like that, even board games, and as an only child I could usually be found in the corner reading my Christmas books rather than acting out charades. My husband’s family, by contrast, were big games players. Their favourite was cribbage, a game first invented in the early 17^th century where the players’ aim is to be the first to score a target number of points. Crib is a game particularly associated with the Navy where it is an "official" game played on ships and submarines, and when my father-in-law retired form the Navy he brought it ashore with him. Spending Christmas with my in-laws introduced me to a whole new way of celebrating family Christmases through playing games together.

Word games will always be my favourite though. Crosswords, code words and quizzes. Recently I came
across something from Victorian times called Ex Libris. Someone begins by choosing a book from the shelf. They are the umpire for the round. The game begins with the umpire reading out the book's first line to give everyone a sense of the prose style. Then everyone writes down their best impression of the book's last line. Everyone pops their suggestions into a hat. At the same time the umpire writes down the actual last line and puts that into the hat too. When all the entries are complete the umpire reads them out. Everyone votes for what they think is the real closing line. You get one point if you vote for the actual last line and one point for everyone who votes for your version. The game keeps going until everyone has had a go at being the umpire and whoever has the most points at the end wins. The most fun comes from last lines that are both credible and very inventive!

Do you have any games that are traditionally played in your family or are your favourites? Whatever your holiday entertainments - goiung out, reading, playing games - I hope you have a wonderful time!

The robin redbreast

All joy of the season!

The robin is a symbol of Christmas in Britain, though I'm not sure why. It lives here year round, but it's not the only bird to do so. There are explanations. One is a connection with early postmen, who wore red coats -- therefore robin red-breasts on cards. It's not completely convincing. Another is a legend about the robin keeping the fire going in the stable to keep the baby Jesus warm and its breast catching fire.  A sweet tale, but the association of the robin with Christmas seems to come in Victorian times. 

Perhaps it's simply because it's a friendly (to humans, at least) little bird with a cheerful colouring in that red breast. Except that its breast isn't red. It is, if you look, distinctly orange!

Why then, so famously red? I've heard that the word "orange" came late to English and that "red" was used for orange, but according to the OED Robin Redbreast crops up in the mid 16th century at about the same time that "orange" comes into use, both as a fruit and a colour.

So it's a mystery! But the robin does have a very benign reputation, as these quotes show.

1550   R. Crowley One & Thyrtye Epigrammes sig. Cviv,   When the short dayes begyn to be colde Robinredbrest wil come home to ye.

1612   J. Webster White Divel (Routledge) v. 45/2   The robin-red~breast and the wren..with leaves and flowers do cover The friendless bodies of unburied men.

1683   T. Tryon Way to Health 448   The Raven as unfit for food,..and the pretty Robbin-Red-Breast for its Innocency, are very seldom killed.

 

The North American robin is a very different bird. I'm sure it's fine, but to me it's not as cute. It's sleeker and it flocks, whereas our robin is solitary and hangs out in our gardens.

 

Whichever you prefer, may the birds of Christmas be kind as the robin and the wren.

 

Jo

 

 

 

 

Joy, Joy, Joy!

by Mary Jo

As my Christmas contribution to our Word Wenches Christmastide postings, I want to talk about what gives us pleasure.  I've read two articles recently that said we find the greatest and most lasting pleasure in experiences, not things.  Not that things aren't nice, but if you're debating taking a trip or buying a new dinette set and telling yourself that the trip will be over in days but you'll have the dinette set for years--remember that being "practical" isn't always the best choice.  Twenty years from now, the dinette set might be history, but a wonderful experience will provide lasting memories for you to cherish and share and smile over.  

And it doesn't have to be a big experience.  Over the weekend, my sister and I went shopping together, even though neither of us much likes shopping.  We didn't buy much, but we had a wonderful time laughing together at places like the well stocked kitchen gadgets department that included such delights as cherry chompers and a six inch dragon whose jaws could be used for cracking nuts.  

Experiences are precious.  What are some of your favorites?  Are there some bright shiny new experiences that you're anticipating for the future?  May they be joyous!

Mary Jo, who finds joy in her cats.  In the picture below, The Panda Puss is obvious, but if you look closely in the front, you can see the head and ears of Smokey MacGregor.  This may be his first Christmas tree, because he takes great joy in playing with the ornaments!  

 

Sweet Anticipation

It was the night before Christmas, and all through the house . . .

The Wenches are kicking off our annual Twelve Days of Christmas posts today, and the classic lines above reminded me that when I was very little, all through the house wafted the scent of my Swiss grandmother's cookies. One of her traditional recipes called for a (complicated) yeast based dough that neded to sit for several hours under tea towels before having a design pressed into them with carved wooden cookie molds—I was allowed to help! Then we popped them in the oven to bake . . .

A Box of Christmas Books

Susan here, getting ready for Christmas by hauling out the holiday stuff . . . 

which in our house includes the big box of Christmas books. When our boys were young, we started a tradition -- every year they’d get one or two new holiday books to share, wrapped, so they could open those a few days before Christmas. This soothed the Christmas crazies a little, and gave us time to sit together to read the new holiday stories before Christmas (and beyond, through the winter and sometimes the entire year if the book became a favorite). 

Over the years we’ve accumulated quite a collection of Christmas-themed books, and now that the kids are grown and gone (sort of!), I still bring out those books at holiday time, and they still browse through them. Now that we have a new grandchild, those books in their special box will be read again someday (she’s way too little yet, but I’m already starting a new collection).

So the Christmas book tradition in our house will continue. Some Christmas books are timeless magic and need to be brought out again year after year, generation after generation . . . .

Some of my own favorite Christmas books as a very little girl became my kids’ favorites too –- like the Little Golden Books editions of The Night Before Christmas, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, Frosty the Snowman . . . and A Christmas Carol, which fascinated me as a kid.

And their favorites have become mine. We read many, many Christmas-themed and winter-themed books together hundreds of times (at least), including Tazewell’s The Littlest Angel, Dylan Thomas’s A Child’s Christmas in Wales, The Polar Express by Chris Van Allsburg, Tolkein’s Letters from Father Christmas, The Best Christmas Pageant Ever by Barbara Robinson, and my middle son’s absolute all-time favorite book ever, Little Dracula’s Christmas by Martin Waddell (this book is a hoot, if you can find it). I read The Polar Express and How the Grinch Stole Christmas so often that I can still recite them.

We also loved gorgeously illustrated books with simple text, like Jan Brett’s Christmas and winter books such as The Wild Christmas Reindeer and The Mitten, so richly, beautifully illustrated with heartwarming stories. Jan Pienkowski’s The First Christmas is simply exquisite.  

Two illustrated Christmas books that my kids loved and read nightly all year, for years (these books won the ultimate award of tattered pages) were both by Raymond Briggs – The Snowman, an eloquent story of a lonely snowman, and Father Christmas, charming and droll -– a grumbling Santa, not much liking the cold, packs sandwiches and a thermos of tea and heads off for a night of adventures. 

Here are a few of our absolute favorites in no particular order (however they came out of the Christmas book box while I was writing this blog!) with a few favorite lines. For me, these books always evoke a warm, wonderful holiday feeling . . .   

A Regency Christmas Quiz

Anne here, celebrating the onset of the Festive Season with a Regency Christmas Quiz.

As usual, you will need a pen and paper to jot down your choices, then at the end, click on the link to check your answers. Don't forget to come back and tell us how you went.

1) Wassailing means:
    a) to play a dirge or lament to hasten the end of winter
    b) to drink to the health of a fruit tree
    c) to hunt a sparrow
    d) to play a game with a feathered ball

A Christmas Carol

Nicola here, talking about festive music. In the last week I’ve been to a couple of carol concerts and it’s been lovely. Nothing puts me more in the mood for Christmas than a carol concert, perhaps because I’ve sung in choirs since I was a small girl and so music and Christmas are inextricably linked for me.  I vividly recall the Christmas candlelight services I went to with my grandparents (there’s something very beautiful about candlelight these days when so much of our lighting is very bright and harsh in comparison.) I also remember the mortifying experience one Christmas of accidentally gate-crashing a nativity scene when I processed the wrong way and ended up in the manger rather than the choir stalls!

Ask A Wench: -- What do you do when you finish a book?

This month's cat out of the hat: What do the wenches do when we finish a book?

Joanna here:  For me "finishing" means sending the manuscript to the editor.

 This isn't the end of writing the book, by any means. There's still substantive editing from my wonderful editor where she says things like—"What?" and— "I have no idea what's going on here!”—and— "What are all these Baldoni doing in London?" and stufflikethatthere.

There's still the copyediting where I discover so very many things I misspelled and all my continuity errors.  Yes. I really have put three days between Monday and Tuesday.  Then there are the galleys where nameless gremlins have snuck in and added odd typos.

But sending the manuscript off, finished, is my big celebration.

Through the academic lens

Hi, Jo here, delighted to welcome Dr. Catherine Roach to the Word Wenches. Catherine is Professor of Gender and Cultural Studies at the University of Alabama. I attended her fascinating at the Romantic Novelists Association conference last July and invited her to be a guest on the blog. I'm so pleased she agreed, because her feminist angle on romance novels made me think, and what's more, she's a romance novelist herself.

Her talk was about the core claims of the romance storyline -- the underlying beliefs of the romance reader and the messages contained in the books, and I thought many of them are particularly powerful in historical romance.

However, I'll begin at the end, with Catherine's final paragraph in her paper, as it sets up the discussion. "The romance story. An analysis of the human condition. A prescription for happiness. A blue print for how to live the good life. An illusion. A recipe for disaster. An addiction. A universal truth. Esteem enlivened by desire. The bonding of two into one. The brainwashing of individuals by power structures with something to gain. You decide. Me, I think it's some of all of the above. And more."

Edith Layton is back & daughter Susie tells nearly all

hosted by Mary Jo

I met Edith Layton and her ten year old daughter Susie at my very first romance conference, when I was under contract but the book hadn't come out yet.  Edith and her fellow Signet Regency writer pal Barbara Hazard kindly invited me to join them for a drink.  I was in the presence of goddesses! 

And with us was Susie, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, interested in everything , and really, seriously bright.  So now it's a pleasure to welcome grown up Susie, who is a writer/producer/performer/Jill of all trade who not only inherited Edith's bubbling creativity, but looks like a direct clone, as you can see below.  A favorite later moment was doing a conference book signing in the basement of a NYC hotel and Susie gliding through on roller blades, visiting Edith and Edith's friends.

Now Susie is visiting the Word Wenches and telling the tale of how Edith Layton's marvelous stories are entering the age of e-books.  Bring it on, Susie!

+++++++++++++++++++++

Hello dear Wenches and Wenchly readers,

I'm Susie Felber, daughter of the late, great Edith Layton. She has a book re-releasing 12/11 and I'm throwing a rocking virtual book party, so do read on for that and oh so much more...

First I want to thank the Wenches for letting me guest here, and in particular, thanks to Mary Jo, for not changing her email or requesting the entry into the FBI's Romance Author Protection from Dumb Publishing Questions Program.

I last blogged here in 2008, describing what it was like to be a romance author's daughter. You can read pt. 1 here and pt. 2 here. In it I share photos and stories of being dragged on research trips to the UK and enduring ignorant sniggers about my mom writing "dirty" books. To be sure, my mother loved being teased about her esoteric research that led us to drafty crypts and far-flung historic sheep-covered fields.

Now as you may or may not know, my mother died in 2009, and it's only now, five years later, that her out-of-print books are finally being made available as ebooks for the very first time. To start, I've handed over nine traditional regencies and one never-before-published novella to Untreed Reads. The first one coming back (get ready for the link to order it!) is The Duke's Wager. It was her first published novel and it won her two awards: 1984 The Romantic Times Award Best New Regency Author and 1984 The Romantic Times Reviewer's Choice Award, Best New Regency Author. 

So you might ask... why'd it take so long? Well, there were many reasons. As I wrote in an article on Kveller called Motherless Jewish Mother, I was pregnant with my second child and working full time, from her home, when she died. (Perhaps I should say "she passed" but that euphemism drives me nuts because it sounds more like digestion than slipping off a mortal coil, doesn't it?)

The photo of us above... well it's not that flattering. But I was secretly pregnant with my first kid, she was secretly on chemo, and we were both wearing dizzying prints. But look at us? Do we look like we want to throw up? No. We are pretty darn happy.

In any case, after she died, besides being emotionally ripped apart from the inside out, I also had her house to tend to. My mother collected everything. Her home of 40 years was chock. full. of. stuff. And thing is, it wasn't like an episode of Hoarders. That would've been easy -- get a dumpster, roll the TV cameras and -- boom! -- you're done. No, my mom had exquisite taste in books, antiques, and whatever was clever, so it was more like an archaeological dig of a pharaoh's tomb. Except instead of coptic jars, I was finding boxes of gold pocket watches and hollowed out books full of enamel snuff boxes and micro mosaics from The Grand Tour. And there were large items I physically couldn't eject, like a pot belly stove and a player piano that no mover believed wasn't there before the house was built.

Then, before the house sold, there were a series of unfortunate events that required extra years and many frantic visits out to my old homestead. I'm not one to believe in hauntings, but I'll be damned if she didn't figure out ways to guilt me into visiting from the beyond.

Then I thought I'd put the books out myself.  I mean why not? I'm tech savvy, I know marketing -- how hard could it be? Oh ho ho ho. With babies, multiple jobs and my habit of performing at night, it was a few years before I waved the white flag on that idea. I dearly love my brothers, but they are also busy and didn't have time to take up the cause.

Once I decided to not go it alone, I had the happy problem of many epublishers wanting her backlist. But I had so many factors to consider. I won't drone on about it now because -- tra la! -- I'm going to be droning on about it soon in an interview about posthumous publishing over at a fabulous blog called Love in the Margins.

So it's finally happening. I'm throwing an Edith Layton virtual book party which involves you being at home, maybe throwing a tweet or two and celebrating in the manner of Edith Layton. How would one "party" like Edith? See this graphic I made with the help of an illustrator pal for suggestions:

So yes, I'm beyond thrilled. And the Edith Layton fans seem to still be there, as evidenced by amazing posts on Smart Bitches and LITM when I was looking for input on cover designs. My mother wrote great stories and she loved doing it. And now these stories will have readers, and that is why I feel like on 12/11, when The Duke's Wager comes back, I'll have broken through the ribbon at the end of a muddy marathon. (OK, maybe it's just a water break, because I've still more books to put into production, and I now work at Audible so I've big plans in the audiobook arena... but still...)

Anyway, if there is any money to be made, it'll be icing, it will be split evenly with my brothers, and no amount could never make up for I wouldn't give to have her here with me now. She was smart, she was well read, but mainly, she was a hoot and a half.

I'll leave you with something I found when I was clearing out her safe deposit box. It was full of papers and I nearly chucked out a ripped envelope with something she'd scribbled on it, figuring it was one of hundreds like it -- dashed off ideas for a book in progress. But of course, I must read everything. It is at right, has a date of 2001 on it -- long before she was diagnosed -- and it says:

Just stopped in to get my mother's wedding ring. If any of you kids happen to come across this because...in the future — don't despair. Well, what the hell — life is life, and that always involves Death. So I only want you to know, that I love you, have always loved you & know that if it is possible, I will love you forever.

Yes, mom, we know. x

You can 'like' the Edith Layton Facebook page for all book updates.

You can follow Susie Felber on Twitter

You can get the Duke's Wager at any of these fine locations:

Amazon: http://bit.ly/DukesWager 

Apple:  https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/the-dukes-wager/id943280144?mt=11&uo=4&at=11l597 or just open the iBooks application and search for the title.

Kobobooks.com:  http://goo.gl/NH8va2

AllRomanceEbooks.com: https://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-theduke039swager-1682674-160.html

Mary Jo here again.  I'll add one last link, this one for the spontaneous memorial post consisting of well over a hundred tributes made by her friends and readers when her death was announced.  She's still with us in her wonderful stories with their impish, pure-Edith humor. Read them to remember, and smile.

 

 

 

In the Bag!

Cara/Andrea here,
With holiday shopping in full swing, shop windows are overflowing with all sorts of fancy merchandise designed to capture our fancy. I passed a well-known purveyor of designerhandbags, and as I stopped to stare at one of the sinfully expensive leather  creations, it got me to thinking about reticules.

Now, I’m one of those people who need a handbag the size of a suitcase to make it through the day. Somehow, I always end up collecting stuff as I zip from place to place . . . gym t-shirts, golf balls, pens, several chocolate bars (a lady can't live without chocolate!) a bottle of Perrier . . . I swear things sort-of grow on their own, because how else does a bag go from weighing 5 pounds to 25 pounds in one afternoon? But I find those dainty, delicate silk reticules from the Regency exquisite, no matter that I’d destroy one in about 45 seconds.

It’s interesting that in Europe the word “purse” traditionally referred to a a bag designed to carry coins (and still does in Britain.) In early days, men wore purses just as often as women—the Scottish sporran is a leftover from this style. But men began to have pockets added to their trousers and coats, and the need for purses petered out.

In the 17th and 18th century, women had pockets too—they were usually a separate item of clothing that was worn under the skirts and atop the petticoats (to thwart thieves) But Regency gowns and fabrics didn’t lend themselves to pockets—they ruined the lines of a sleeker styles. And so  the reticule became a fashionable accessory. Many young ladies used their sewing and embroidery skills to add personal style to their bags . . . we’re not so lucky. We need to pay and arm and a leg for a stylish bag. I'm always amazed at how fragile they are. But then, a young lady carried perhaps a hankerchielf and a few ribbons—and maybe a billet doux! No car keys, no cellphone, no make-up bag to weigh her down!)

So, what about you? Are you one of those people who are handbag-obsesssed? Are you willing to spend a fortune on a stylish bag? (After all, we carry it every day!) I confess, I’m not a fashionista. I just can't see spending gobs of money on one. A sturdy, serviceable sack does just fine. But I do enjoy looking!

At long last, Edith Layton books go electronic!

by Mary Jo

On Wednesday, December 10th, Edith's daughter, Susie Felber, will visit us to talk about the long awaited e-release of her mother's classic Regency romances, and on what it was like growing up as her mother's daughter.  Guaranteed to be fun!

The Oldest White Horse on the Hill

Joanna here, talking about a British hill figure, the White Horse of Uffington.

This is Nicola’s neighborhood, as you see here.  I will nonetheless forge on bravely into her bailiwick.

Okay. Let’s say you’re a Regency miss visiting friends in Oxfordshire in the parish of Uffington.  Even though the White Horse can be seen twenty miles away, your carriage arrived in the Vale of the White Horse at night. You had to pull yourself out of bed at dawn to creep out in the garden and finally see it.

A skimped, hurried breakfast and you’re off.  This is Midsummer’s Day. You drive through throngs in the morning to get to the White Horse. You’re not surprised there’s a fair and foodstalls, jugs of beer, and sports. Midsummer’s Day is always  a big event. You have a village fair back home in Yorkshire. But this is huge. Beyond anything. There must be thousands of people here.

You’re in time to see the festivities start. The young men gather in a troop, up spade, shovel, mattocks, and hoe, and head up hill for the “scouring of the White Horse.”  All the nearby towns, you’ll be told, claim a role in the scouring and restoration of the White Horse by ancient custom.

Now I will break into your Regency scene here and say that I have been to the White Horse of Uffington myself.  It’s impressive. There it is, carved into the endless green, 374 feet long, 227 feet high.  Designed to be in proportion when viewed from below. It’s . . . big.

The figure is on the side of that sloping hill, just a lazy walk from the road below. It was clear and quiet when I was there.  The figure feels very old. The artistic convention of it is sophisticated, but alien.  And it’s beautiful.

There’s a superstition that if you stand in the ‘eye’ of the horse and make a wish, it’ll come true.  So I did that. And it pretty much did.

The turning of the seasons

I love the turning of the seasons, that moment when you see the first flush of autumn color, or the first white frost that blankets the ground and etches the world in shades of grey, the first precious buds of blossom or new leaves spouting from bare limbs, or the appearance of little green fruits that tell you summer is almost here. We each have different markers of the season, depending on where we live, and even though for so many of us who live in cities and maybe have no garden, still we mark the seasons.

My home town (Melbourne, in the south-eastern corner of Australia) is famous—infamous?— for having four seasons in one day, and I have to say, it's pretty true. Our weather is very changeable.

But in any case, I constantly juggle seasons — in my imagination it's one season (whenever the story I'm working on is set) while outside it's usually a completely different season — and then on social media, friends in different parts of the world are in a different season again. I must admit I sometimes have to check which season I'm actually in.

The Return of English Saffron

Nicola here. Today I am talking about one of my favourite spices, saffron. I absolutely love saffron flavouring in my food and when I read recently that saffron was being grown in England for the first time in 200 years I was quite excited. English saffron tastes different from imported saffron. It has a honey sweetness and scent that offsets saffron’s slightly bitter under taste. This adds a very distinctive flavour to all sorts of recipes from those involving fish to cakes and even potatoes.

 Saffron is obtained from Crocus Sativus and it was once
a flourishing industry in England. In 1597 Gerard wrote in his Herbal "Saffron groweth plentifully in Cambridgeshire, Saffron Walden and other places thereabouts as corne in the fields".