' A Little History ' 25/07/2007 06:44:01 |
" I was fortunate to be born and brought up in the South East of England. This area with its varied countryside, towns and places of interest inspired the locations in my novel, Tangled Hearts.
Today, I live in Hertfordshire. When I look up from my computer I have a view of my organic garden in which I grow fruit, herbs and vegetables; beyond the hedge is a green and beyond that woodland that has survived since mediaeval times. In good weather, I sit outside and work on my laptop drawing inspiration from the peaceful surrounding.
I’ve always enjoyed reading historical novels and historical non-fiction and am so pleased to have a novel set in Queen Anne's reign accepted. Whenever I mention Queen Anne, most people are uncertain and want to know who she was, so, I hope you will find Tangled Hearts interesting.
Apart from my love of reading and writing, I enjoy my studies of classical Indian literature, particularly ‘The Bhagavadgita As It Is’. Whenever I have time I enjoy visiting places of interest and have planned a visit to Hatfield House where Elizabeth 1st found out she was Queen of England. I also enjoy creative crafts and cooking but I enjoy cooking too much because I have a sweet tooth."
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Back to the Top ¦ Add a Comment ¦
View Comments
|
' A Writer's Plan for a Summer Day ' 17/06/2008 11:48:26 |
A Writer’s Plans for a Summer Day
Two of my interests in life are writing fiction and gardening. These activities complement each other. For the first I need a fertile imagination, for the second fertile soil suitable for the requirements of various plants. Sometimes I think that I would be happy if I had nothing more to do than write and garden.
So far, this morning has been typical of an early summer day. Here in Hertfordshire, England the sun is shining but the air is cool. As soon as I woke up I hurried downstairs and started the dishwasher and washing machine to take advantage of cheap rate electricity called Economy 7. I then unearthed the ice cream maker from a kitchen cupboard and put the bowl in the freezer so that I can make mango ice cream later on. Next I turned on the sprinkler to give one of the vegetable patches a good watering.
For the first time in many years I have not grown runner beans. The bees have suffered a disease which has reduced their numbers so the flowers were not pollinated. Instead, I’m growing French Beans. The butternut squash is slow to take off but the beetroot, brussel sprouts, cabbage, carrots, cauliflower, swiss chard, courgettes, cucumbers, new potatoes, different varieties of lettuce, spinach and the outdoor and indoor tomatoes are flourishing and so are the herbs, soft and stone fruit.
The miniature water lily in my garden pond is also flourishing. Pond is a grandiose name for an old bathtub sunk in the ground. My youngest son and I went to a garden centre to buy a pre-formed pond. Those on sale were too shallow. On our way home we saw a bathtub in a skip. All I wanted was a pond to attract wildlife so we asked for and were granted the bathtub. The builder said he would deliver it later and my son excavated a hole for it. Later the builder knocked on my door. ‘Thought you might need these,’ he said and handed me the bath fittings obviously pleased with his good deed for the day. The dear man thought I am too poor to afford a bathtub.
Edged with paving stones my pond looks great. At one time I kept goldfish and the pond became home to a refugee. One night my daughter-in-law woke and screamed. Something wet had flapped on her face. Capri, her tortoiseshell cat had brought her the gift of a large goldfish. My son woke and put the fish in the bathtub. On the following day he put it in my pond. Sadly, another cat or – maybe – a fox caught all my fish.
Near the pond are my potted herbs. While I walk back down the garden path to the house I imagine gardens in times past when herbs were essential for health and flavouring.
When I moved into my house the garden was overgrown and subconsciously it fired my imagination. In my novel Tangled Hearts set in England in 1702 during Queen Anne’s reign, the heroine, Richelda, has inherited a neglected manor house with unkempt grounds which I use to emphasise her situation.
“Dudley opened the lichen-stained wooden gate. They entered the weed-infested drive, on either side of which only the hardiest of the untended ornamental plants survived.
Back straight, head held high, Richelda strode past parallel orchards towards Bellemont House. Embarrassed because she had declared her love, she battled against the urge to weep.”
After turning on the tap and checking the sprinkler was working properly I went upstairs to a small book-lined bedroom converted into an office. This week I will blog, e-mail and tell people about Tangled Hearts. (You can read the first chapters on my website and my blog.) Sometime this week I will work on part Three of my brief history of the Cinderella princess who became Queen Anne.
On most mornings I work from 6 a.m. to 10 a.m. with a very short break for breakfast. Today will be no exception. I plan to dig over a patch in the front garden which resembles a cottage garden filled with lupins, roses, delphiniums, cranes bill geraniums and many self–seeded plants such as love-in-the-mist and Californian poppies. I will then mix my home made compost with fertiliser and dig it in before planting a dozen strawberry plants which have fruit on them, pale mauve cranes bill geraniums and penstemons which I bought at the summer fete at my grandson’s primary school. And I hope to find time to pot up some scarlet and white geraniums, lupins and Gardenrs Delight tomatoes which I grew from seed.
Compared to our ancestors we are fortunate to enjoy a wide variety of plants and gooks.
After a lunch of new potatoes and lettuce from the garden with cucumbers, baby tomatoes and a vegeburger followed by mango ice cream I’ll put my feet up and read.
At the moment I’m re-visiting old favourites Out of Africa and Shadows on the Grass by Karen Blixen (Isak Dinesen) which was made into a film starring Meryl Streep and Robert Redford. And I will catch up on some research A little History of British Gardening by Jenny Uglow, The English Rococco Garden by Michael Symes and A Taste of History 10,000 years of food in Britain published by English Heritage.
Currently, I’m revising several novels and short stories for which I will seek publishers. On most days I return to the computer at about 4 p.m and work until 6 30.p.m. After dinner I then work until 8 or 9 p.m. by which time I yawn and watch television or read before I nod off to sleep after another happy day.
Well, you know what they say about the best laid plans of mice and men. My daughter phoned to ask if she and her children, boys aged 6 and 2 and three quarters may have dinner with us. So I’ll pull a homemade macaroni cheese out of the freezer and serve it with new potatoes, garden peas and gravy. They’ll come round about 4 p.m. when I’ll let the boys help me to make the mango ice cream which I’m sure they will enjoy.
All the best,
Rosemary Morris
www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
www.rosemarymorris.blogspot.com
Tangled Hearts available now.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Back to the Top ¦ Add a Comment ¦
View Comments
|
' Butterfly Farm ' 16/02/2008 07:43:31 |
Yesterday, I visited a butterfly farm forty-five minutes from my house, on the way to the university town, Cambridge, England. A writer's mind is never idle. I imagined the land as it once was with wildflower meadows over which butterflies flitted. Alas
there are fewer today due to chemical sprays.
As well as butterflies there are other creatures on the farm amongst which are a peregrine falcon. I am writing a novel set in the reign of Edward IInd and was pleased to have the opportunity to put a couple of questions.
Q. What is the purpose of the hood?
A. If a falcon sees another falcon in the sky it becomes excited. The hood keeps it calm and the same is true if the falcon is on the ground. Hence the expression, hood winked.
Q. How does the handler persuade the falcon to return?
A. Falcons are greedy. They will return to the gauntlet if there is food on it. Otherwise, if it is trained to a lure with meat on it, the lure is swung round. The falcon will return to the lure and the hood can be slipped on.
It's amazing how much material I gather for my novels while I'm out and about.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Back to the Top ¦ Add a Comment ¦
View Comments
|
' Gardens Past and Present ' 18/04/2008 07:04:48 |
My interest in gardening and history extends to Garden History and the effect of
changes in climate over the years.
At the moment I am reading A little History of British Gardening by
Jenny Uglow. It begins with a mention of the Iron Age in the first
Chapter: 'Did the Romans Have Rakes" and is a mine of information.
Ms Uglow describes gardens large and small, the plants and the
gardeners. She writes:
"I wish there were medieval monastic gardens for us to visit, to
wander from the cloister to the orchard, the infirmary to the fish
ponds, the paradise where flowers were grown to the rows of kale and
leeks. But even if we cannot visit them we know that the monks and
nuns enjoyed their gardens. At Winchester the clerk of works had a
private garden called 'La Joye'. And in 1108, on the day that he
died, the ailing archbishop of York walked in his garden to breathe
the air and the scent of flowers.'
Yesterday I too breathed the air at a large garden centre where I
bought a Hertfordshire Russet apple tree on dwarf stock because I live
in Hertfordshire, England, and because the shops don't sell russet apples, which are
crisp and sweet.
Unfortunately there was a frost last night and there will be another one
tonight so I'm afraid that the plum blossom will be affected and
there'll be a poor crop.
Today I tied up and fed my broad beans which I planted in the autumn
and now I can't wait for warm weather so I can plant other vegetables
some flowers and more herbs,
All the best,
Rosemary
www.rosemarymorris.com. www.rosemarymorris.blogspot.com
Tangled Hearts available from www.enspirenpress.com, amazon.com, amazon.co.uk, barnesandnoble.com and in bookshops.
Tangled Hearts is set in the reign of the last Stuart monarch,Queen Anne (1702-1714)and has received five star reviews.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Back to the Top ¦ Add a Comment ¦
View Comments
|
' Ham House ' 14/01/2008 07:19:07 |
"I research my romantic historicals intensively, reading, using the website and visiting places of interest. In the summer, Anita Davidson and I visited Ham House, near Richmond in Surrey, England.
Built in 1610 for Sir Thomas Vavasour, Knight Marshal to James 1st, and subsequently owned by the Duke and Duchess of Lauderdale, Ham House is now owned by the National Trust.
I imagined the hero, Chesney, and the heroine, Richelda, of my novel Tangled Hearts, taking the air in the magnificent grounds and treading the floors of Ham House.
Of particular interest to me were the closets, small rooms which are more intimate than the larger rooms such as the North Drawing room.
There are six closets at Ham House. Two of which fascinated me because closets or ‘clossets’ as the word would have been spelt in times past are used by the heroine in my new novel, Tangled Lives, also set in the reign of Queen Anne, the last Stuart monarch.
The first was the Green Closet hung with green damask where cabinet pictures and miniatures were displayed.
The second was the Duchess's Private Closet. Where the Duchess of Lauderdale, who inherited Ham House, kept books, tea and valuables. It is furnished with lacquered furniture and hung with pictures.
During my visit, I enjoyed imagining the Duchess in her 'Bathing Roome'. When bathing, her bath was surrounded by a canopy that created the steam laden atmosphere of a Turkish Bath. After she stepped out of the bath, I visualised her entering the adjacent room. There warmed by a fire, her maid massaged her with oil and wrapped her in towels.
You can share my experience by visiting: www.nationaltrust.org.uk/hamhouse
Tangled Hearts available now from www.enspirenpress.com, Amazon and in bookshops."
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Back to the Top ¦ Add a Comment ¦
View Comments
|
' Murder Most Foul ' 06/08/2009 08:25:59 |
Murder Most Foul
A Classical Tale from Ancient India.
By
Rosemary Morris
When the sun retired on cool evenings, purple shadows crept across the fields and villagers sat in stout, mud-brick houses either gossiping or telling stories. The elders sat closest to slow burning fires of cow-dung cakes dried during summer’s ferocity, and whenever they mentioned King Chitraketu’s name, they praised him.
Yet the king found his life more barren than a desert because he had not received a son from any of his wives. Whether he resided in his capital city Mathura, in the Indian province of Surasena, or whether he travelled by horse, elephant, camel or chariot he lamented.
Whenever he saw a man with a son, he asked himself. Which sinful action in my present life or my past lives prevents me from having an heir?
He put this question to ambiguous brahmin priests who replied. “Do your subjects complain there is any lack in the kingdom. Aren’t there enough grains and pulses, vegetables and fruits, nuts and spices, herbs and cloth?
The king sighed while he listened to rain drum on roofs where people sunned themselves during spring’s pregnant promise or slept during summer’s ripening heat.
The priests assured their pious king there would be no lack. Even the grass Mother Bhumi produced for cows and oxen made dung to nourish her and provided fuel for cooking and warmth.
When his spies confirmed his subjects were contented, he again asked himself. Why don’t I have a son? In my kingdom even racketeers can’t find black market goods because my people lack nothing.
Despite his country’s and his personal prosperity, Chitraketu grew thin. To have a son, he would gladly renounce his education, his health and his treasury filled with chests of gold and precious stones
His golden skin paled, his long black hair lost its shine and his moustache drooped mournfully at the edges of his unsmiling mouth.
The more wives he accepted the more he suffered from anxiety and the less he ate. Brahmin cooks made his favourite preparations, wafer thin unleavened breads, fluffy rice, tit-bits of vegetables fried in chick pea flour batter served with spiced sauces or yoghurt, and rice simmered in condensed milk with honey and almonds. Obsessed by his desire to hear his son’s laughter within the marble walls of his palace, he only ate enough to keep himself alive.
He never gave up hope. He accepted wife after wife and provided each one with a soft bed to lie on, silk clothes, gold girdles, earrings, nose rings and bracelets. Each queen consort sported in water gardens, crops were harvested, and although the still autumn air over-heated the blood he never dived into swimming baths of clear water to splash, tease or play with his consorts.
Until the day when Sage Angira, master of mystic knowledge, visited Chitraketu, each queen, famous for her good qualities and beauty, witnessed his self-pity, heard his lamentations and prayed to become mother of the heir apparent.
The king bowed his head, pressed his palms together as though he was praying and gestured to his gold throne set on a dais. “Please sit there, Sage Angira.”
In silence, the courtiers watched the ascetic go up the short flight of steps and sit down.
Sage Angira’s skin rippled over a spine disdaining to lean against the cushion furnishing the back of the throne.
Everyone, including the king, knew how indifferent sages were to comfort. At night their arms, with which they pillowed their heads, satisfied them as much as pillows as soft as swansdown.
Sage Angira did not bend his head topped with lustrous, black hair partly arranged in a bun and partly falling to his waist, around which was tied his only garment, a pleated, ankle-length, saffron cloth. In silence the holy man scrutinised his host, who circled a slipper-shaped brass dish containing a lighted ghee wick before him.
In accordance with custom, Chitraketu worshipped God’s representative. To the accompaniment of a tinkling bell and chanted hymns he continued the ceremony by offering incense, flowers, clean cloth and water to the sage and concluded it by blowing a conch shell.
He then sat cross-legged on the floor and Sage Angira the yogi, the master of all five senses addressed him. “My dear king, words are insufficient for me to express my appreciation of your hospitality and humility.”
The king stared at the ground while waiting for his visitor to continue.
“Are you in good health? Is your mind troubled? I hope that just as the earth receives showers, Lord Krishna’s delegates, the demi-gods and goddesses, shower you with blessings. In other words, I hope there is neither anything lacking nor any problems in your kingdom.
Chitraketu knew the sage used conventional phrases while piercing the fleshy veil of the body with omniscient eyes.
“My dear king, are you in complete control of your mind? Are you in control of your family, the courtiers, provincial governors, merchants who, with your permission, deal in silks and wool, spices and jewels? Can you control tax collectors, farmers and labourers?
Oppressed by the weight of his jewel-embedded, gold crown Chitraketu bent his head, stared at the sage’s feet and listened attentively.
“Have you no reply to make? Has someone let you down or have you failed to achieve something? Your pale face reveals you are distraught.”
The king took a deep breath. “My dear sage, you are a great personality, who neither rejoices over happiness nor laments over distress because you understand each condition is temporary. Nevertheless, you understand someone like me who alternates between cheerfulness and misery.”
He broke off, then, with tears spilling from the corners of his eyes, he continued. “A traveller is dissatisfied when his host puts flower garlands round his neck and gives him fragrant sandalwood pulp to cool his body. He wants food and drink. A king is discontented without an heir. An heir to light his funeral pyre and save his ancestors from hell by offering them sweetly perfumed flowers and flower garlands.”
Instead of replying, Sage Angira first offered Lord Krishna, The Supreme Personality of God, sweet rice and then gave it to Kritayouti, King Chitraketu’s senior wife. After she ate it, he said. “My dear king, your queen will present you with a son who will cause laughter and tears.”
The royal parents assumed Sage Angira’s words meant their son would play childish pranks and sometimes be disobedient.
After the sage left, rain impregnated the earth, the seeds within her swelled and the queen received a son into her womb.
As the days of her pregnancy passed Chitraketu observed Kritadyouti progress from moon-sickle slenderness to harvest moon fullness.
On the evening of the prince’s birth, the queen looked out of the latticed windows at the night sky, admired spangled points of light dispersing velvet darkness and said. “My dear husband, I rejoice because our son’s spark of life vanquished your melancholy, which was as black as the sky during a lunar eclipse.”
As soon as Chitraketu announced the heir’s birth, the townsfolk rejoiced. In the palace the prince’s male relatives bathed and dressed themselves in silk tunics worn over trousers fitting tightly at the ankles. They adorned themselves with elaborately wound turbans, ropes of pearls, diamonds and other precious stones, gold belts, earrings and arm clasps. When they were satisfied with their appearance, the king, the uncles, great-uncles, first, second and third cousins and other relatives assembled before going to see the child.
After everyone admired the prince, a brahmin astrologer named him Harshasoka. Delighted, Chritraketu rewarded all his brahmin subjects with gifts of gold, land on which villages provided incomes, horses, elephants, mountains of grain and thousands of cows.
Every morning, as happy as a beggar finding a fortune, the king loved Harshasoka more than he did on the previous day and his love for Kritayouti increased until his interest in his other wives dwindled.
The queens observed their husband’s devotion to Kritayouti and yearning to receive children from him did not sleep well.
All of them hoped to regain the king’s attention. They wore the finest silk, satin and velvet clothes. Some accentuated their shapely figures with saris, others either wore long tunics over trousers gathered into cuffs at the ankle or figure hugging blouses and swirling skirts.
But the beautiful wives were not puppets to dance at the end of a string. They were well-educated women qualified to raise heroic sons and give their husband advice about the government of nations.
Immersed in her personal happiness, Kritayouti neglected her duty to her co-wives. She neither behaved as a mother or a loving elder sister and had no time for them. They felt like insignificant servants within their husband’s palaces. Frustrated, because they neither had sons nor felt protected by a husband qualified by his character to have many wives, they complained to each other.
“Oh! A woman with no son whose husband and senior wife ignore her should live in the forest instead of being humiliated by neglect,” exclaimed the blonde daughter of a northern prince.
“Our husband accepts the services of Kritayouti’s maidservants and thanks them politely but doesn’t speak a word to us,” stormed the raven-haired daughter of a desert prince.
Anger and envy burned in her charcoal black eyes and was reflected in the eyes and expressions of all the consorts.
*
Kritayouti wondered why Harshasoka slept for so long. She went to the nursery, bent over his intricately carved sandalwood cradle and decided to let him sleep for a little longer. An hour later, uneasy because Harshasoka still slept she commanded the nurse. “Bring the prince to me.”
The woman padded into the nursery, approached the cot, saw the pallor of Harshasoka’s face and screamed. “I’m cursed.”
The queen ran in and saw her dead son. But she did not suspect her rock-hearted co-queens of conspiring to poison the prince.
The murderers entered the nursery, wailed louder than anyone else and made no attempt to comfort their husband or Kritayouti.
The fire of lamentation grew in Chitraketu’s heart, raged and consumed everything else. His hair was disordered and his tunic twisted. When he fainted the physician remarked. “His breath comes unevenly.”
In the presence of his ministers and priests, the king regained consciousness and repeatedly tried to speak.
Seeing her protector in such a condition Kritayouti sat next to him and wept. The flowers tucked into her hair fell to the ground and black eye make up smudged her face. Soaked by the waterfall of her tears red kum-kum powder decorating her breasts stained her thin silk blouse.
Kritayouti clutched a bar of the cradle. “Why has this happened to me? My husband never harmed anyone. Why did God take our son? I’ve never hurt anyone. I’m a virtuous woman, a merciful queen, and a kind mistress. Why did this happen to me?”
Forgetting the laws of karma applied to millions of her past lives, lives during which every good and bad action led to a favourable or unfavourable reaction in her present and future lives, she only saw and thought of her dead son.
Seeing Kritayouti shared his grief, Chitraketu moved closer to her. “Harshasoka, my son, my dear little prince, why have you gone away? Please don’t go with Yamaraja the demi-god who presides over death. Hear me and return to me.”
When he paused to wipe his eyes on the sleeve of his tunic, his queen continued. “Dearest of children, your friends want you to play with them, wake up and let me feed you, you must be very hungry. I beg you to open your eyes and smile at me. Please speak to me.”
With open mouth Chitraketu sobbed and everyone in the court wept.
*
Sage Angira understood the king was drowning in a death-like ocean of lamentation and came to court with the sage of sages, Narada Muni.
When he saw the king lying on the floor as though he was dead he abandoned the formalities he employed on his previous visit. “My dear king, do you believe you and the dead body in the cot have anything to do with each other? Why do you and your queen think he is your son? Was he your son before he entered the queen’s womb? Is he your son now the body he lived in is dead? Do you have any relationship with the dead body you are mourning? Will it be your son tomorrow, next week, next year?”
His words shocked the king, the queen and the courtiers. They stopped weeping and remained silent.
Sage Angira continued. “Seaweed clumps together on the ocean’s surface, rising and falling until waves toss it apart forever. People meet during the waves of time and no matter how much they grieve they are separated by the laws of nature.”
King Chitraketu propped himself up on his left elbow and wiped his eyes with the back of his right hand. “Sage Angira, please save me. I’m a man more ignorant than a village dog scavenging for scraps. Please give me scraps of real knowledge.”
“Your majesty, material life is an illusion. It is a dream because it is temporary. When I last visited you, I could have spoken of spiritual matters, but you were preoccupied with thoughts of your unborn heir. So, I gave you a son and warned you he would cause happiness and distress.”
The king sat up, did not, could not look at the dead body while remembering he had not paid much attention to Sage Angira’s warning. He’d been happy on the child’s Naming Day and given no consideration to the literal translation of Harshasoka, jubilation and lamentation.
He crossed his legs, straightened his back, folded his palms together and thought. This lifeless body is my enemy. It causes me so much anguish.
Narada, an eternally handsome, celibate young sage, stood up. With compassion he first looked at the king then addressed the inert body in the cradle. “Dear soul, may you receive good fortune.
“Enter this inert body. See your parents, your relatives and friends who are in mourning.”
The queen consorts looked uneasily at each other. What would happen to them? Too frightened to whisper of their crime to each other the murderers clustered together and stood with clasped hands and downcast eyes.
Narada continued. “Dear soul, you departed prematurely from your last body. Now permission is granted for you to return to it. In due course of time, you may inherit your father’s throne.”
Colour filled the infant’s cheek and the faint smell of decaying flesh dispersed. Harshasoka stretched, yawned and sat up. He regarded everyone and asked. “Who is my father? What kind of father is he? My soul has transmigrated to many bodies. Should I look for a plant, insect, fish, bird, animal, human or spirit father?”
Chitraketu and Kritayouti embraced the child.
“Ah!” said the soul through the vehicle of the body with which he no longer identified himself. “You think you are my parents. You don’t understand you’re swept along by the river of existence in which souls sometimes surface as kinsfolk, friends or enemies.”
Chitraketu and Kritayouti glanced at each other and accepted their son was dead to them although his indestructible soul would transmigrate to another body.
End
Based on SrimadBhagavatam translated by A.C.Bhaktivedanta Srila Prabhupada.
First published in Scribo.
c.Rosemary Morris.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Back to the Top ¦ Add a Comment ¦
View Comments
|
' Path to Publication ' 14/01/2008 07:13:53 |
" I cannot remember a time when my head was not crowded with ideas for short stories and novels. As I grew older my love of history developed. English language, literature, history and geography were my favourite subjects at school. I read as much children’s historical fiction as the library could provide.
My love of reading, writing and persistence has been rewarded with the publication of Tangled Hearts,set in early 18th century England during the reign of Queen Anne the last Stuart monarch.
When I read about times past, something or other strikes a chord in me. I then see my characters, name them and decide what part they have to play in my novel. I visit London and stately homes such as Hampton Court, Hatfield House, Blenheim and Chenies Manor - to name a few - all of which are inspirational.
Until recently, I only wrote in a small bedroom converted into an office, the walls of which are lined with bookshelves. It has a view of my cottage style garden filled with fruit trees, soft fruit, herbs, vegetables and ornamentals. It attracts many species of birds and butterflies and is a delight to my eyes. So,I purchased a laptop and next year will enjoy writing in the garden.
All the best,
Rosemary Morris "
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Back to the Top ¦ Add a Comment ¦
View Comments
|
' Planning a New Novel - The First Step ' 16/02/2008 07:44:44 |
When planning my novels I live on ‘Cloud Nine’ and give a lot of thought to my characters.
My new hero, Justin, is intrusive. He won't go away. He is so
demanding that when thinking of him I nearly burned the spaghetti sauce.
Justin’s partner to be is taking shape in my mind - both her characteristics and physical appearance.
Oh dear, amongst other things, Justin wants me to go on a shopping spree with him to make sure I know what he likes and dislikes. He's so bossy he will soon be writing letters to me to tell me all about him, where he was born, who his parents are etc. I'm sure it will be interesting But please, pretty please, Justin don't wake me up in the middle of the night again to ask my advice, I need my sleep,
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Back to the Top ¦ Add a Comment ¦
View Comments
|
' Queen Anne - Part One ' 14/01/2008 07:24:33 |
"My novel, Tangled Hearts, is set in the reign of Queen Anne a ‘Cinderella’ princess of little importance during her childhood.
At her birth, neither her uncle, Charles II, nor her father, James, Duke of York, imagined she would become the last of the Stuart monarchs. After all, Charles’ seven bastards proved his virility and there was every reason to believe he and his queen of three years would have legitimate heirs to the throne. And in the unlikely event of their not producing one, his brother and sister-in-law, James and Anne, had produced an elder brother and sister for the latest addition to their nursery, Baby Anne.
In those days infant mortality was high. The son ‘Cinderella’s’ mother carried when she married only lived for six months. But Anne and her older sister, Mary, survived the Great Plague which broke out in the year of her birth. The little princesses grew up in their nursery but their brother James, another brother and two little sisters died. One can imagine the effects of these deaths on ‘Cinderella’, a small girl with poor health whose weak eyes watered constantly.
Doubtless, it was with the best of intentions that with the consent of ‘Cinderella’s’ uncle, the king, her parents sent the four year old to her grandmother, widow of the executed Charles I, who now lived in France.
As I write, I have before me a portrait of Anne as a small girl painted by an unknown artist at the French Court. She is plump and adorable, dressed in brocade and playing with a King Charles spaniel. Her eyes are wary set in an oval face with a mouth shaped in a perfect cupid’s bow.
In 1699, after Anne’s grandmother died, the little girl passed into the care of her father’s sister, Henrietta Maria, Duchess of Orleans, whom Anne’s uncle, the King of England doted on. In 1670 five year old Anne had to cope with yet another death, this time that of her aunt, whose husband, younger brother of the French king, was suspected of poisoning her.
Anne returned to England, her eyes only slightly improved, to be reunited with her parents. By then her mother was unpopular because she had converted to the Church of Rome and her father, who in 1699, gave serious consideration to his salvation took Holy Communion from a papist priest. Her parents’ decisions would have a long term effect on the young princess Anne’s future.
"
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Back to the Top ¦ Add a Comment ¦
View Comments
|
' Queen Anne - Part Two ' 14/01/2008 11:11:20 |
" Princess Anne’s mother died and her father, James, Duke of York, had taken the unpopular step of becoming a Roman Catholic. Her uncle, the childless King Charles II, knew politics demanded his heirs, Anne and her elder sister, Mary, be raised in the Protestant faith. He appointed Lady Frances Villiers, a committed Anglican, as their governess and leased Richmond palace to Frances and her husband.
The princesses benefited from country air and were privileged to live by the Thames in those days when, due to bad roads, the river was of great importance.
Anne’s indulgent father visited his daughters regularly, showered them with gifts and often stayed for several nights at Richmond Palace. Yet all was not well with the family. In 1673, due to the Test Act, which excluded anyone who did not take communion in the Anglican Church from public office, James was forced to resign as Lord High Admiral and to give up all his other official positions. In that age of fervent religious allegiances, I wonder what effect religious controversy and on Anne, a stubborn child.
What did Anne think when her father married fifteen year old Mary? History relates that James was captivated by his bride. Looking at a copy of her portrait, I’m not surprised. She was tall with a good figure, jet black hair, a fair skin and large eyes that her contemporaries at court described as ‘full of sweetness and light’. The proud bridegroom introduced his new wife to his daughters as a ‘playmate’ but Anne formed a bond, not with her stepmother, whose children would be raised in the Roman Catholic faith, but with vivacious Sarah Churchill, who would have such a profound influence on Anne’s life.
Motherless Anne, a Protestant ‘Cinderella', has all the ingredients of a fictional heroine, but what would she make of her life? After all, she belonged to the tragic Stuart family.
It is in ‘Cinderella’s life and times that I have set my novel Tangled Hearts and am setting my new novel, Tangled Lives.
Rosemary Morris
www.rosemarymorris.co.ik
www.rosemarymorris.blogspot.com
Tangled Hearts available from www.enspirenpress.com, Amazon and in bookshops."
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Back to the Top ¦ Add a Comment ¦
View Comments
|
' Seasonal Fruit from An Author's Garden ' 18/08/2009 09:05:47 |
Seasonal Fruit from an Author’s Summer Garden
I have gardened organically for the last twenty years in Hertfordshire, England. When I moved into a house with a medium size back garden overgrown with blackberries, thistles and nettles I knew I must invest time and money. So, I decided to make my money work for me. Instead of concentrating on ornamental plants I planted fruit trees. I now have a wild plum tree, a cooking apple tree, three eating apple trees, two pear trees, two plum trees and one cherry tree. And believe you me I have made mistakes. My Hertfordshire Russet Apple is in the wrong place – too close to a lilac bush that forms part of a living screen to filter the wind round the garden. And I’ve just realized that the cherry tree is not self fertile. I need another cherry tree for pollination but where can I plant it? I’m running out of space and also covet a peach tree. Apart from this, my investment paid off. This year the bullace provided a magnificent crop. The fruit is small a little bigger than large grapes. It can be eaten fresh or made into jam, chutney, pies and crumbles.
I thinned the plums in early July and looked mournfully at a large bucket of hard green fruit. However, this gave good results. The tree is loaded with plums as large as apricots. The pear trees a Conference and a Sweet William are a little disappointing because the fruit is on the small side but I’ve no doubt it will be delicious. The small crop from the Bramley Cooking Apple tree disappointed me this year. I think the tree needs a thick layer of organic manure in the autumn and organic fertiliser in the spring. The eating apple trees are heavy with fruit that will be ready for picking in late September and early October. When I first planted fruit trees I did not know that to avoid frost decimating the blossom in spring it is best to plant ones which belong to group three of four because they flower in late spring – hopefully after the last frost.
This year, I have been using fruit in season. My strawberries grown in a sunny spot in well-manured soil yielded a bowlful a day and enough to make strawberry ice-cream. Next came summer raspberries – a disappointing yield – but the autumn raspberries look promising. In 2011, I might dig up the raspberry canes and the strawberries and swap beds using new stock. It is said that strawberries do produce well for more than three years.
From the redcurrant bushes hung strings of red fruit as bright as jewels. As a result there is a row of jars of redcurrant jelly in the store cupboard and two containers of the fruit in the freezer with which I might make redcurrant cordial. Next to the redcurrant bushes are gooseberry bushes. These were star performers this year. Luscious yellow-green fruits bursting with sweetness to be eaten fresh and hard three-quarters ripe fruit for chutney and jam as well as a full container in the freezer for the delights of fruit fool or a pie. And now I’m eating the bullace – a small bowlful every morning as part of my five a day fruit and vegetables.
In addition to these fruits the rhubarb is growing well and I harvested enough to make pies but not enough to make chutney. Fortunately I have a couple of jars left over from last year.
Although I regard marrows as vegetables not fruit I have two giant ones. With one I shall make marrow and ginger jam with crystalised ginger as soon as possible. The other I will stuff and bake in foil.
Apart from fruit from my garden there are wild fruits such as blackberries which I eat raw, preserve and use with cooking apples to make pies. Elderberries make excellent cordials and various hips and haws such as rosehips from which jelly or a syrup can be made. Apart from free food it is very pleasant to forage in the country.
I enjoy growing and eating the fruits of my garden as well as preserving, pickling and cooking them in various ways and always hope for bumper crops.
Every year I like to try something new. This year I grew a virus free strain of strawberries from seed. They have flourished and are planted as an edging to a long flower border along the path in the back garden. To encourage them to root well, I have picked off the pretty pink flowers and hope for a bumper crop next year. I also planted Cape Gooseberry seeds. They sprouted. I transplanted the seedlings but they did not flourish and died after two months. I shall try again next year. And – possibly – plant a peach tree .
Growing my own fruit, herbs and vegetables is rewarding and provides excellent exercise after spending many hours at the computer or sitting still while researching.
www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
Tangled Hearts set in the reign of Queen Anne 1702 – 1714 received 5* reviews can be ordered from bookshops and is available from Amazon & elsewhere.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Back to the Top ¦ Add a Comment ¦
View Comments
|
