Here’s the result of an interview I did with the very generous Sally Cronin who is a marvel at supporting indie authors. Thank you Sally.
Whilst fossicking around in Medieval history, myths and legend as part of research for my current work in progress I found this story of a brave knight and his dog to share with you.
It happened long ago that a giant fire and brimstone belching dragon lived in a dark wood near Stonegrave, just outside York. Said dragon had a nasty habit of dining on the local peasantry. Those who saw it and lived to tell the tale relate that its teeth were long and sharp ‘like the tines of a pitchfork’ and from it’s gaping jaws dripped a foul poison…hardly surprising with all that smoking.
Many knights, plumped up with derring-do, ventured forth to kill it but the monster chewed them up, bones and everything. Not yet satisfied it went onto to mash up their armour and gobble the poor horses ‘saddle and all’.
Enter a Brave Knight
There came a knight, one Sir Peter Loschy, a warrior of renown who determined to battle with the beast and put an end to the fiery feasts the dragon made of innocent peasants and valiant knights alike. He vowed he would kill the dragon or die trying and given the dragon’s track record no-one was taking bets on the survival option.
However, Sir Peter seemed to have a bit more cunning than most. He had a suit of armour made that was covered with sharp blades. Donning the suit in preparation for the battle, his young squire asked him how he was feeling.
‘Sharp’ he quipped and winked at the young man.
He mounted his trusty steed weighed down by his armour, sword and shield and rode towards Loschy Wood where the dragon hung out. I expect comely maidens in pointy hats waved their handkerchiefs at him as he passed by but the bards only ever mention damsels in distress.
To the Dragon’s Den
Sir Peter rode into the wood; the further he penetrated the denser and darker it became. He had for a companion his trusty hound Leo. In the deepest part of the wood Sir Peter halted. There was a-crashing and a-bashing as trees fell and a hoarse smoky voice shouted to him.
‘don’t trouble yourself to come further, I’m coming to you’.
And sure enough the dragon emerged through the flattened trees. Quick as a flash it coiled its long tail around the valiant knight and squeezed and crushed, crushed and squeezed intending to make mincemeat of Sir Peter.
However, the dragon reckoned not on the nasty spiky sharp blades that covered the knight’s armour. The blades cut into the dragon and the more it tightened its grip the more it was flayed by the blades and the greater its pain. The dragon gave a cry as only dragons can, a sort of ‘OOOOOOOOWWWAAAAAAAARGH’ as history records.
The beast released our brave hero and really miffed, not to say enraged, it was determined to have steak haché, extra well-done for its supper.
Yet brave Sir Peter, albeit a bit short of wind by now, swiftly drew his sword and landed a dozen fearsome cuts on his opponent. But our dragon had a secret weapon. He rolled on the earth and voila, by magic his wounds healed.
Fight to the Death
For three hours knight and dragon fought and still the dragon survived the onslaught. However, one heavy cut lopped off the dragon’s tail and quick as a flash, his faithful hound Leo picked it up and running all the way to Nunnington Church dumped it there where it could not be joined to the dragon’s body again.
And that was the way of it. Our knight lopped of a limb and Leo ran off with it until finally only the dragon’s head was left and the dragon, unsurprisingly, was dead.
Sir Peter, patted and stroked his dog.
‘Well done, lad’ he said as Leo licked his face.
But wait! On Leo’s tongue was some of the poison from the dragon’s body. So venomous was it that Sir Peter dropped down, stone dead. Poor Leo was so sorry. He would not leave his master. He lay by the body and died of doggy grief.
Sir Peter was buried in Nunnington church and a stone effigy shows Leo at his feet. Whether Leo was buried with him is unclear.
There are, as in all these Medieval tales a few snags that the analytical among you will no doubt spot but hey, let’s not spoil a good story.
P.S. the part of Leo was played by Zouzou
My good intention to blog regularly has crashed down into the nether regions but I thought if I did a quick catch-up I might be saved from hellfire.
I published my first novel The Weave in November.
The transition from writing to publishing has created a whole new ball game. In effect as an independently published author I am running a new business – promoting, marketing, creating copy, promotional offers and so on. It requires some business skills that I had folded away in a drawer and forgotten about and other skills, completely new to me. It’s a new mind set – from introversion – spending the past eighteen months quietly researching and writing – to extraversion – active on social media, supporting other authors and so on. This is going to take some getting used to.
I am fortunate however. I have no-one to worry about other than myself. It really doesn’t matter that the washing pile reaches the height of an African anthill. House work? Bah, humbug. Not a priority. A quick swish and whish keeps the worst at bay.
Shopping – supermarket dash; cooking – there’s always cheese and biscuits.
Seriously though I do wonder at and admire those with far more responsibilities who still manage to turn out book after book.
My only current commitment is Zouzou, a golden, hairy stray who seems to think I run a B&B exclusively for him. You do realise I’m talking about a dog don’t you? However he gets me out walking which gives me time to think, plan and plot.
Rashly I agreed to help with the Christmas decorations around the village which ate up the better part of a week but worth it for the effects.
However with icy winds and teeming rain for the most of the week…well let’s just say it was a challenge, not helped by Zou’s predilection for chewing the garlands I made.
Another week slipped by sorting out my health insurance, council tax payments and gather all the evidence for my application for citizenship. I will have lived in France for the requisite five years this coming February and in view of the Brexit “uncertainties” I want to safeguard my residency status.
Between all this I’m on the first draft of my second novel; set in the seventh century, in Northern England during a time of great change and conflict. It’s also a time when few contemporary accounts were written thus allowing me to let my imagination off the leash.
So perseverance is the watchword or sheer Yorkshire bloody-mindedness if you prefer, as I career towards the end of the year.
Thank you to those who have followed this somewhat erratic blog and to those who have helped me with tweets, retweets and other free publicity. An extra big thank you plus a hug to those who have parted with hard-won cash to buy a copy of The Weave (paperback out in the New Year).
I wish you all happy holidays and the very best for the New Year.
Thank you to Sue Vincent for letting me loose on her blog site.
You can learn more about Sue and her work here: https://scvincent.com/about/
When I was fifteen my parents considered me sensible enough to go on an exchange holiday to France. Little did they know. I was excited, nervous. I had never been on holiday alone; I had never been in a plane; my french was execrable which didn’t matter anyway because being shy, I always became tongue-tied with strangers.
I flew from what was then, in the sixties, Yeadon airport (Leeds/Bradford airport). It was just a big shed really in comparison to airports now. I arrived at Nice airport in the afternoon. It was then that things started to go wrong. No-one came to meet me. I waited and waited, getting more and more anxious. I considered ‘phoning my parents but I knew they would only tell me to come home. The stubborn streak in me wasn’t going to let that happen!
The problem was that I didn’t have the full address…
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A very generous offer which deserves sharing. Thank you Charles
Hello to everyone! I want once again to offer an opportunity for all writers who follow this blog to share information on their books. It can be very difficult to generate publicity for our writing, so I thought this little effort might help. All books may be mentioned, and there is no restriction on genre. This includes poetry and non-fiction.
To participate, simply give your name, your book, information about it, and where to purchase it in the comments section. Then please be willing to reblog and/or tweet this post. The more people that see it, the more publicity we can generate for everyone’s books.
Thank you for participating!
Celebrate and promote your writing! Shout it out to the world! Let everyone know about your work!
Feel free to promote a new or an older book!
I hope this idea is successful, and I…
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Charles Waterton, naturalist, explorer, environmentalist and true English eccentric. I mean how else would you describe a man who, expecting dinner guests, hid under the table, growled like a dog and bit his guests’ legs?
Born in 1782, into a devout Catholic family. He lived at Walton Hall in West Yorkshire, England – the house built by his father on the remains of an earlier one. He attended Stonyhurst College before completing his education abroad. As a non-Conformist Waterton did not have the usual opportunities open to him that a man of his class would normally enjoy. He was unable to hold any public office, army commission or attend an English university.
So, in 1804 he travelled to British Guiana to manage his uncle’s estates near Georgetown. In 1812 he began a series of what he called “Wanderings” in South America where he recorded the local flora and fauna and hunted animals to take back to Walton. Over time, he amassed a large collection for which he developed new a method of taxidermy and some of this collection, remarkably lifelike, survives today. He also used his skills to poke fun at the Church of England and the State.
In 1813, returning from his travels, Waterton appears to have experienced an epiphany in his relationship with wildlife. He began to turn the park around Walton Hall into a wildlife reserve, permitting no hunting and excluding no animal except the fox and badger. He nursed the old trees on his estate, keeping them standing when most would have felled them and planted holly hedges and ivy for nesting sites. Wildfowl were enticed back to the lake surrounding the Hall. He railed at his neighbours for killing dwindling species of birds.
In the 1820’s he started his most ambitious project – building a nine-foot high wall around three miles of his park to create a sanctuary not only for wildlife but also for himself. He states in one of his essays:
“having suffered myself and learned mercy, I broke in pieces the penal laws which the knavery of the gamekeeper and the lamentable ignorance of other servants had hitherto put in force”.
In 1829 Waterton married 17-year-old Anne Edmonstone who was a granddaughter of an Arawak Indian. She died shortly after giving birth to their son Edmund when she was only 18. After her death he slept on the floor with a block of wood for a pillow,
“as self-inflicted penance for her soul!”
His two sisters-in-law came to live at Walton to look after the young Edmund. As the child grew up Waterton found it increasingly difficult to develop a father-son relationship. As a young man Edmund was lavish with money that he did not have, he had little or no interest in his father’s activities. It is quite possible that he was embarrassed by his father’s eccentricities – an embarrassment that developed perhaps into contempt as indicated by Edmund’s later actions.
Apart from family difficulties there was also the problem of the impact of growing industrialisation in the country but events brought it right to his doorstep. Adjoining his estate was Walton Soap Works, owned by William Hodgson and Edward Simpson. Soap manufacture, one of Victorian England’s growth industries, used particularly noxious chemicals that generated harmful pollutants and by-products. Waterton had co-existed peacefully with his neighbours – a peace based on a gentleman’s agreement to refrain from manufacturing the actual chemicals required to make soap – a practice that made production cheaper. However, growing consumer demand proved hard to resist. Hodgson and Simpson reneged on the agreement.
When Hodgson died in 1840, Simpson took over entirely and the soap works flourished. He built a new chimney that belched out sulphuric acid fumes. This acid rain killed trees and hedgerows. Stinking toxic effluents accumulated in drains and oozed into nearby watercourses. Crops failed and livestock sickened. Even the men at the works were affected. Waterton writes in a local newspaper:
“Simpson’s operatives are the very personification of death alive. There is not a single cherry-cheeked fresh or healthy looking man among them”.
In 1847, Waterton declared war, starting the first of three legal campaigns against “soapy” Simpson. This was to be no gentlemanly conflict. Simpson was a formidable enemy. The soap works made him a wealthy man. He had gained respectability, becoming a local councillor, a partner in a bank and a property owner.
Simpson did not attempt to defend himself. He was astute enough to know it was fruitless to deny, directly, the claims made against him. Instead, he used personal attacks and ridicule to undermine Waterton’s credibility. When the case came to court, it was referred to arbitration. In the time leading up to the hearing Waterton suffered volleys of personal abuse together with random acts of violence to property and livestock.
At the eventual hearing in 1848, the verdict was double-edged. Simpson was found guilty of negligence and given a warning. Waterton received £1100 compensation but had to bear part of the legal costs. Simpson carried on his business and the pollution continued unabated.
A few months later Waterton launched his second attack. He presented a vast quantity of evidence and Simpson brought in a great squad of witnesses (who received suspiciously high expenses for their trouble) to deny the works were harmful or polluting. This time, the arbitrator merely warned Simpson to maintain high safety standards.
In the final battle of 1850, Waterton took a more subtle approach. Perhaps he learned a few tricks from his adversary. He discovered that Simpson wanted to expand his works and Waterton’s sister-in-law, “by chance” owned a house with land away from Walton. How she came to do this is unclear. Possibly Waterton bought it secretly, with a view to inducing Simpson to leave. Waterton offered terms – the land and house in exchange for the complete closure of the Walton Soap Works. Simpson accepted the terms and paid all legal costs.
It was a Pyrrhic victory for Waterton. He lost trees, hedges, birds and other wildlife. Pollution fouled his lake and watercourses. He spent considerable time and money on the lawsuits. His health suffered. Yet Simpson prospered, merely taking his work and pollution elsewhere.
Charles Waterton died in 1865 after a heavy fall. His coffin was taken across the lake to his chosen burial place. In a final ironic twist his estranged son, Edmund sold off all the valuable timber, mercilessly slaughtered the birds and game and did his best to obliterate all traces of his father’s conservation legacy. Ultimately, he sold the estate to none other than the son of Waterton’s bitter enemy, “soapy” Simpson.
Today, Waterton’s home is a hotel and part of Waterton’s park is once more a wildlife sanctuary. The nearby Walton Park Wildlife Discovery Centre promotes the values of the man who advises us:
“Look close with a quiet mind. Learn from all that you see and so try not to assert your power…”
One of the most fascinating sights on my recent jaunt to Provence was les bories – settlements built entirely of limestone and without using an iota of cement.
In the 17th and 18th centuries Provence, like many French regions faced a huge population increase and the King decreed that more land should be taken into cultivation to avoid a dearth of corn and subsequent famine. The poorest people took on uncultivated land, often very difficult to work and developed it into small fields. Often this land was far away from any village so they built les bories using the stone they unearthed or found lying around as they started to work the land.
One such settlement ‘Les Cabanes’ is to be found about 4km from the lovely town of Gordes at an altitude of around 270 metres on an arrid limestone escarpment.
At ‘Les Cabanes’ the buildings themselves are a work of art. Built by a dry-stone method, layer after layer of limestone was tightly fitted together with a slight ‘batter’ to shed the rain. The settlement comprised houses, stables, pig sties, barns, bread ovens, a press and cellar for wine. The tracks around the settlement were enclosed by more stone walls to guard against brigands but, more importantly to protect against the wolves which ran wild in the Vaucluse Mountains at that time.
The paysans grew mulberry and almond trees, cereals, hay for their sheep and goats and, above all, olive trees which are well suited to the dry stony ground. All around the Gordes area, olive presses could be found until le grand gel – the great freeze – of 1956 put an end to the harvest.
In addition to their main crops the paysans also kept bees, had small potagers, collected the wild herbs, hunted for truffles and raised silkworms – all of which added to their back-breaking labours. Nevertheless the revenues obtained from all this activity gave them the means to avoid starvation.
The site at ‘Les Cabanes’ was eventually abandoned and during more than a century it fell into ruin. In 1969 a restoration project started which lasted eight years and in 1977 the site was classified as an historic monument.
You may wonder why I’m posting pictures of fields full of lumps and bumps but be patient …
Do you know what it is yet? Does this help?
(Photo: English Heritage Library©)
These are photos of Gainsthorpe deserted village in Lincolnshire – one of the best preserved in the realm of deserted mediaeval villages in England.
The village is noted in the Domesday Book; later, in 1208 a windmill and a chapel were recorded but the last mention of its name was 1383. 17th century records refer to well- preserved earthworks with a couple of hundred houses and up to half a dozen streets.
It was an irregularly planned village, much of which has now been lost to farming and quarrying, but once was a thriving medieval settlement of small houses – one or two-roomed – built of stone. Each house was separated from its neighbour by a low bank with plots at the front – ‘tofts’ – which would have had buildings or workshops. At the back of each house was a ‘croft’ – a garden for growing vegetables and fodder. Streets ran between the houses and field strips for growing crops surrounded the whole village.
Over time the village changed as villages do and there are indications of the merger of some of the houses into larger ones which surround a courtyard. The experts believe this to indicate a shift in farming practices and the development of a manorial complex with a home farm complete with fishpond and dovecotes.
Today the streets look like deep tracks behind which are the remains of the houses, indicated by their low turf foundations. The field strips have been lost to later ploughing.
SO WHAT HAPPENED?
The simple answer is we don’t really know. We do know from an early 17th century source that the village was already deserted by 1616:
‘there is nowe neyther tofte, tenemente or cottage standinge… it keepes neer 1500 sheepe.’
Other villages nearby suffered from the outbreak of the Black Death – the plague that ran amok in England in the 1340’s. Perhaps that contributed to the village’s demise. Deliberate depopulation is also a possibility when landowners forced out their tenants and used the land for the more lucrative sheep farming.
One theory offered by antiquarian Abraham de la Pryne in the late 17th century was:
“Tradition says that the town was, in days of yore, exceeding famous for robberys, and that nobody inhabited there but thieves: and that the countrey, having for a long while endur’d all their villanys, they at last, when they could suffer them no longer, riss [rose] with one consent, and pulled down the same about their ears.”
He then concludes with a more prosaic explanation:
“But I fancy the town was eaten up with time, poverty and pasturage.”
I fancy he is correct.
I thought that you might like to see the cover for my book The Weave – yes I know my Facebook followers have already seen it but it doesn’t hurt to remind you! Hope you like it. Should be out in November.
However, I could really do with some feedback about the proposed ‘blurb’ to go on the back cover. Bit of a cheek I know considering I’ve had six months away from the blog but sometimes life just gets in the way. Anyhow, this is the proposed wording. It was harder to write than the book itself and this is the fourth version.
|1598: When Oskar, Comte de Tréville asks the witch Ombrine to save the life of his son, she demands a high price. Oskar must leave his family and his lands and travel with her, as a servant, to Barbaria in search of the deadly Amerello spiders.
On his return to France five years later Oskar finds he is wanted for the murder of his wife. Unable to prove his innocence he allies himself with Ombrine who persuades him to take the Jouance – a life-prolonging drug made from the venom of the Amerellos.
He and Ombrine embark on a career of crime using Ombrine’s witchcraft and her Szellem – creatures called up from the dead.
Three centuries later, Oskar, now wealthy and leisured uncovers the truth about the fate of his family and has only one remaining ambition – to exact a long slow revenge.
2013: Debut author Richard Pease suffers from writer’s block. He is also broke and bedevilled by fears of his own inadequacy. He has just six weeks to complete his second book or lose his publishing contract.
A chance encounter with Oskar takes Richard to the Nonesuch Club, a writer’s retreat in France run by Oskar and Ombrine. There he finds the block to finishing his book lifts.
The mysterious disappearance of a fellow club member and the discovery of a drug laboratory in the Club plunge Richard into a centuries-old tangled web of deceit leaving him not only fighting for his career but also for his life.
So what do you think? If you saw the cover and read the blurb in a bookshop or on-line would you rush to buy or give a great big yawn and move on?
All ideas, suggestions, yah-boo-it-sucks welcome. Leave a comment below and thank you.
I have been taking a sabbatical from social media as I was finding it extremely difficult to promote my books and continue with the research and writing of the next one. In the end I took time out to try to create a more sensible regime for book promotion. This has freed up a bit of time for research and allowed my mind to wander around the thirteenth century (the era of my next book).
One question I was trying to answer was how would some of my characters react, feel and think about some of the natural phenomena that occur on this beautiful planet? Phenomena that we now understand and can explain. How would things such as meteors and comets, whirlpools, fossils, disappearing springs and ‘petrifying’ cascades be reasoned and explained? There are few eyewitness accounts but a wealth of folklore to pick through that give us some insight into the average medieval man’s mind.
Taking examples from my own environment here in France – how would my characters react to the disappearing spring at Fontestorbes? Regularly, throughout the day the water appears gushing out of a cave in the mountain-side and then it vanishes leaving the cave dry-ish – all done in the space of half an hour. Did they really believe in fairies? Did they think that it was some sort of magical launderette and the local fées took all the water to do their washing and woe betide any human that got in the way?
Then again what would people have made of Les Cascades de la Turasse tumbling down thirty metres of steep wooded hillside at Roquefort les Cascades? We know that minerals in the water created the petrified objects lying in the stream and the basins of tufa. Would they wonder who created this tufière and how? Did my thirteenth century peasants fear that they would be turned into stone and so whispered a little prayer as they passed by? Or is that some later folklorique aimed at the passing tourist trade?
However, above all, we have the pronouncements of churchmen and monks who interpreted these phenomena for their less-educated flocks – albeit within limited parameters: God or Devil; Good or Evil.
For example there are springs of Belesta and Celles. In both instances events took place that were quickly attributed to the Virgin Mary and the church took control.
At Belesta a poor shepherd tormented by ulcers on his legs came to drink at the spring known as the Amourel. There he was allegedly visited by the Virgin Mary who instructed him to wash his legs in the spring and he would be healed. Overcoming a natural (for the time) reluctance to bathing he did as she bid him and the next day…not an ulcer to be seen. The news got around and local folk made a simple shrine by the spring. Then the churchmen took over and built a chapel on top of the spring itself. Pilgrims from far and wide travelling there to be healed, now had to descend into the crypt to drink the water leaving their offerings of gold and silver .
The spring at Celles was the scene of another Virginal visit. Appearing as a white dove before taking up a corporeal form she had a wee bit of a chat with local boy Jean Courdil. She warned Jean that the inhabitants of Celles had to change their ways and asked him to spread the news. (There was at the time much discord and dissension about religious matters throughout France and allegedly four of the local women had beaten up the curé). There was, the Virgin said, a greater likelihood of all the villagers going to The Other Place rather than Heaven unless they all repented. A procession of repentance was duly held and calm and order returned to the village. It was then that the spring where Jean met the Virgin was transformed into a source of healing and relief of suffering. As at Belesta, the pilgrims flocked there to a little chapel that was erected alongside the stream.
Turning away from watery subjects to stony ones. When I lived on the Holderness coast in East Yorkshire I regularly came across fossils on the beach. My medieval characters held a host of superstitions and beliefs about fossils. What they were; where they came from. In particular they endowed many of them with magical or curative properties.
The Ammonites were known as Snakestones (it is not by chance that this is the title of my next book) and were thought to be headless serpents that had turned to stone. William Camden in his work Britannia describes them as:
“Stony serpents wreathed up in circles but eternally without heads.”
Attributed with several useful properties Ammonites were believed to provide an antidote to snake bites, cure blindness, barrenness and impotence to say nothing of warding off lightning and evil spirits.
Echinoids (sea urchins) some of the most common fossils, were considered to be fairy loaves because of their bun-like shape. In Medieval homes one was often placed by the hearth to ensure there was always bread in the house. If there was a week when the house was bread-less, it was thought that witches had been at work and blocked the fairy loaf’s protective powers,
Gryphaea (bi-valves) were believed to be toenail clippings from Old Nick himself and acquired the title of the Devil’s Toenail because of the curved shape and growth bands. For some strange reason they were often worn as a cure for rheumatism and arthritis.
Sadly, although I have several in my little fossil collection and they ain’t done nuffink for me!