The book I still haven't written...by Sheila Claydon

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I got the idea for my book Remembering Rose from two old photographs in my mother-in-law's family album. I thoroughly enjoyed researching the history that would enable Rachel, the heroine, to travel back in time, and it eventually turned out to be the first book of my Mapleby Memories trilogy. What's more, although the story is entirely fictional, there are snippets of her family history hidden in it, things that mean long dead family members are not forgotten. 

There is, however, another book that I really should write but somehow don't seem able to start, and that's the story of my own grandfather. When he died, aged 72, in 1910, he must have felt sure that the truth of his birth would never be discovered. 
 
According to family legend, his parents were scions of English nobility whose love affair had been thwarted, it was assumed by their parents. He had thus been born in secrecy, fostered until he was old enough to be educated, and later apprenticed in a trade that would ensure he had a well remunerated life. So far, so fairy-tale ending! But who were his parents? By the time I was intrigued enough to want to know, all the next generation were dead and there was no one to ask any more.  
 
Looking at his photo, I still wondered. Long face, high smooth forehead, amazing cheekbones, a luxuriant moustache; definitely a  Lord of the Manor lookalike. So for years I dined out on possibly being the granddaughter of a baronet, duke or earl…I didn’t go quite as far as prince. Then the Internet arrived and I realised I could track him down.
 
But where to start? A birth certificate, except I didn’t know where he was born, so a wedding certificate. My grandmother’s name would prove I had found the correct William. Determined, I contacted the General Register Office and…wow! He and my grandmother, Elizabeth, were married in St Margaret’s Church, Westminster in May 1884. Built next to Westminster Abbey, it has a long and imposing history as well as being the parish church of the House of Commons. Samuel Pepys was married there, and the poet John Milton. Winston Churchill was too. 
 
I discovered that Elizabeth lived in Kent so, instead of marrying locally, a wedding in  Westminster must have been a deliberate choice. Was it because her father was a Professor of Music who had previously been a Band Master in The Royal Hussars and had influence, or was it something more mundane?
 
The certificate also said William had a father, George! George (deceased) was a builder. What? There was something mysterious hidden amongst those statements and signatures. 
 
Fired up, I sent for birth certificates. Elizabeth’s was exemplary but William’s told a whole new story. I found him in Norfolk, born to Sarah. No father. I started trawling the censuses and there he was, in 1861, aged 3, LIVING WITH HIS GRANDPARENTS and, shock on shock, his older brother Joseph, also illegitimate. William was still there in 1871, aged 13. His grandfather was a bricklayer who owned a brickyard. Sarah lived and worked away as a maid. Also living there was his Uncle George, a builder. George never married and remained in the family home until his early death.
 
I’ve been to Norfolk now and seen where they all lived; the corner house with a yard behind it, the big double gates wide enough for a cart full of bricks to be pulled through by a horse. His grandfather, my great-grandfather, was always employed and apparently earning enough to keep both  his illegitimate grandsons in education until the school leaving age of 14, not very common in those long-ago days. He probably paid for their apprenticeships too.
 
I don’t know if the family tales of William having to sleep under the counter during his apprenticeship as a draper are true or just another embellishment to make his life seem more exciting. 
 
I learned nothing more about him until I found him, at the age of 22, living and working in Knightsbridge, where St Margaret’s Westminster would have been his parish church, so getting married there wasn't special after all.
 
How he met Elizabeth is also a mystery because everything I’ve learned about her family indicates that she moved in much more rarefied circles than a Draper from Norfolk. Surely they didn’t bond over a bolt of cloth while she was choosing material for a dress! 
 
However, by the time William and Elizabeth married, the stars were aligned. His mother, both his grandparents and his uncle George were all dead, so who was going to find him out if he sanitised his past by claiming George as his father?  In 1884 the Internet wasn’t even a concept. 
 
Was he a young man ashamed of his birth or a young man who saw an opportunity to better himself? Or did he lie to persuade Elizabeth's parents that he was worthy of their daughter?While I’ll never know the answer, I do wish my father and his brothers and sisters had known about their grandparents. Known, too, that they had cousins and aunts and uncles in Norfolk.  Was he ashamed of them? Did he disown his brother too? Did he lose his Norfolk accent? I certainly never heard that he had one. In fact nobody ever mentioned Norfolk at all, so I guess they all bought the nobility story. Nor do I know when the story of his supposedly noble illegitimacy became part of family legend and he ditched his uncle George. After his in-laws died I would imagine!

I have never been able to track down his father either, so Sarah’s secret will remain with her. William, however, has been well and truly found out! 
 
Am I shocked by his lies and subterfuge? Not really because I’ll never know what drove him to behave as he did, and when I look at that photo I have to admit that he still looks distinguished, a proper Victorian gentleman, so maybe he achieved his ambition to better himself. I don’t think I’m imagining the hint of a knowing smile beneath that luxuriant moustache either, so maybe it was worth it.
 
 
 

Thank You Tom Hanks...by Sheila Claydon

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In Remembering Rose, Book 1 of my Mapleby Trilogy, the heroine, Rachel, learns about the cares and troubles of previous generations as she travels back through time. I did much the same last week and it has made me feel very humble.

On Apple TV at the moment there is a new mini series series being streamed. Based on the non-fiction book by Donald L Miller (always mention the writer!!!) Masters of the Air is based on the true story of America's 8th Air Force's 100th Bomb Group during World War 2.  From 1943 to 1945 these young American soldiers, nicknamed the 'Bloody Hundred' on account of their immense losses, flew more than 8,500 missions over 22 months, losing 757 men, with 900 more becoming prisoners of war. Tom Hanks, who is an executive producer alongside Steven Speilberg and Gary Goetzman, insisted the story be told as it happened, with nothing made up. So every plane blown up, every pilot, gunner and navigator killed is a true account of the horror these men lived through. Of course there are the happier bits too, the friendships made, the acts of unbelievable bravery and loyalty, but despite this I could only watch one episode at a time instead of our normal back-to-back streaming.

The reason I felt like this, however, is not because of the actual story, although that is hard enough to watch, but because these brave airmen were stationed at Bomber Command in East Anglia in the UK, and that is where my parents were, and where they met and married. 

The Americans flew the Boeing B17 Flying Fortress while the Brits flew Lancaster Bombers. My father, who was in his thirties, was a sergeant responsible for loading bombs onto the Lancasters, while my mother, as a young WAAF (Women's Auxiliary Air Force) was a driver. Her job was to take the pilots and their crews to the airfield for their bombing raids, and then return to collect them, always wondering how many planes would actually return. This tension is very well portrayed in the series.

What really got me, however, is remembering that my mother was only 19 when she joined the WAAF and learned to drive those unwieldy canvas covered army trucks that were such an ubiquitous sight on British roads when I was a child. She had 2 week's intensive driving instruction and then was out there on her own. Unlike the American's daytime raids portrayed in the series, the British bombers flew at night, so she had to negotiate country lanes with no signposts and tiny pinprick headlights because of the blackout rules. I remember, too, that my Father had a deformed finger where one of the bombs had slipped as it was being loaded.

When I was about 7 years old my parents returned to visit friends in the area and, while we were there, revisited the airfield, which by then was a waste of abandoned Nissen huts with a solitary caretaker. I can still remember walking down the cracked runway with grass sprouting through it so the visit must have made quite an impression. Of course I had no idea what memories it brought back to my parents, how many wasted lives they must have remembered while they were there. 

Watching the series and remembering my life from 19 through to my early 20s, and remembering my children's lives, and the life my 18 and 21 year old granddaughters are enjoying today, I realise how much we owe to those brave young airmen and the ground crews who supported them, and how very, very lucky we are. Unlike so many war films, Masters of the Air is true, and I wish it could be mandatory watching although obviously that is not possible! My parents' reminiscences, including their memories of meeting the American pilots, was little more than a story from my childhood until, thanks to this TV series, I saw what they and countless others actually lived through and came out the other side still smiling. It is truly humbling.

 

New Year, New Dog...by Sheila Claydon

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There are animal characters in quite a few of my books, some wild, some domesticated. A horse, a dog and a lot of birds feature in Mending Jodie's Heart. It's not surprising really as we are a pet loving family. In the past there have been gerbils, hamsters, guinea pigs, dogs, cats, turtles, and the largest lop-eared rabbit ever. He was so tame that, as well as being house-trained, he used to join our dog on the rug in front of the fire whenever he got the chance. The dog, a sheltie/collie cross, appeared to sigh heavily whenever that happened. He put up with it though. Nowadays we only have a dog but our daughter, who lives nearby, has horses, dogs and a very naughty rag-doll cat as well as a 40 year old Reeves turtle that seems determined to live forever. So incorporating animal characters into my books is an inevitability. And now there is another one!

Somebody please play ball

This is Lilo (pronounced Leelo from the children's program Lilo and Stitch). Adorable and naughty in equal measure, she has a back story that is a book all of its own. The last puppy born in a litter of 8, she is far smaller than her brothers and sisters, definitely the runt of the litter, and to add to her woes one of her front feet is minus all its toes. On top of that she has a cough that ends in a spluttering retching sound that has us all waiting for the next breath.  Despite the missing toes and the cough, however, she is the most appealing little thing.  

When my son-in-law went looking for a replacement dog for a recently deceased and much loved 14 year old King Charles Cavalier spaniel (not that it is possible to actually replace a dog) he found Lilo. The rest of the litter had all been sold but because nobody had wanted a tiny, disabled dog with a cough, the owners were considering keeping her for breeding if she proved strong enough. Whether it was because he rescued her or whether it just her nature we'll never know, but she is the most joyous of dogs and everybody has fallen totally in love with her. The other dogs have accepted her too, and the cat. In fact she has very quickly stolen her way into everybody's heart.

The lack of toes doesn't impede her in any way either. She can already keep up with the older dogs, play ball and throw her toys around with abandon. She has a huge appetite too although I don't think she'll ever be very big. And she is the first in the queue for treats. Most amusing of all, because her back legs are slightly too long, she looks like a tiny and very appealing kangaroo when she sits on her haunches with her front legs in the air. 

The cough is almost better now as well and she has been given a clean bill of health by the vet despite her mild disability. 

Paisley, the older dog in the household, is a trained school dog with a job to do. She spent a year training and follows rules and directions to the nth degree, but despite that she seems to enjoy sharing space with Lilo, a dog who is unlikely to follow any rule any time soon, partly because of her appeal and partly because she so loves to be cuddled that the no furniture and no lap rules seem to have disappeared completely.  So, despite her inauspicious start, Lilo appears to have fallen on her (3) feet and has a very happy life ahead of her. We are looking forward to being part of it.

Waiting for her master

Cuddling up to the next best thing to a human

Sharing a bed, any bed, is just what I do!

• I am trying to stay awake but it's hard

Christmases Past (and Presents)...by Sheila Claydon

 

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I haven't written any books with Christmas in them but Loving Ellen (Book 2 of Mapleby Memories) has exactly the right cover. I can imagine little Ellen's excitement when she wakes up on Christmas morning and sees a bulging stocking at the end of her bed. And that imagining has made me remember some of the favourite gifts I received as a child.

The first one I can clearly recall is a pair of rabbit fur mittens. I was about 5 years old. The fur was on top, the palm was leather, and there was a gathering of elastic at the wrist so they wouldn't fall off. They were so soft and warm and  I wore them for most of the Christmas holiday, indoors and out, often rubbing the furry side against my face. I adored them. In those days it was real fur too. Nowadays it would be faux. We also used to eat rabbit in those long ago days not long after the war, so it seemed entirely natural to use their fur for hats and gloves, whereas now rabbit pie has all but disappeared from the British culinary tradition and rabbits are mostly children's pets.

Another present I remember was a doll house. It was really special although I didn't know how special until years later when I realised my parents had made it for me. It was only a few years after WW2 so toys were in short supply and money was too. But by using wooden boxes, scraps of wallpaper and carpet, and by contriving beds, chairs and sofas out of matchboxes plumped up with cotton wool and covered in old dress material, they conjured up the most marvellous gift. It had four fully furnished rooms and a family of tiny rubber dolls. The baby's cradle was half a walnut shell. I loved it beyond words.

I remember, too, the artist's palette, 3 canvases and box of oil paints I received from a much older cousin when I was about 14 and fancying myself as a painter. My poor grandmother and my father patiently sat  for hours while I painted them. Although I am no artist I did capture their likeness and my mother hung them in the hall until I left home. She then removed them somewhat rapidly and I am quite sure with a sigh of relief.

I remember the baby doll too. I insisted it was a boy and called him Michael. Maybe prescient as that's my husband's name! He was almost new born baby size and my mother, who had kept my old carry cot ready for another child who sadly never arrived, let me use it for Michael along with the covers and shawls I had been wrapped in as a baby. I had a doll pram too but I don't remember how or when that arrived or whether it was new or second hand. I do know it was maroon though.

Then, when I was about nine years old, I had the book Christmas! I don't remember what my parents gave me, but everyone else gave me a book. I had a great many aunts and uncles and cousins, so that was quite a lot of books. At least ten, and not a single one replicated. Nor had I read any of them before. There was What Katy Did, What Katy Did Next, Little Women, one of Enid Blyton's Famous Five books, Swallows and Amazons, Children of the New Forest and Heidi to name a few. I don't remember them all but I know my parents had a very peaceful time because I spent Christmas with my nose in one book after another. And although I already loved reading, I think that was the year I started writing too. I can remember turning a cupboard in my bedroom into a desk with pencil, rubber and notepad laid out neatly on the shelf and a small stool tucked underneath. None of my early scribblings survived but I do remember writing about a girl called Dorothy although what her story was about is lost in the mists of time.

Christmas for children is wonderful if they are lucky enough to be part of a caring family. Nowadays, so many years later, I enjoy my Christmases vicariously through the eyes and excitement of my grandchildren, and, although I hardly dare admit it, my grand dogs, cat and horses!! According to my granddaughters they are so much part of the family that they can't be left out. However I don't think dog biscuits, catnip and hay nets will have the same lasting memories for them that my early Christmases have for me. 

As I get older I relish the memories and know how lucky I was, and still am. I hope you have your own wonderful memories too.

Merry Christmas!

The Silver Screen and Me...by Sheila Claydon

 

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For a variety of reasons I haven't been able to concentrate on writing recently, which means I've lost the habit of putting words on a page every day. So in an attempt to reactivate the creative juices I have been looking at my backlist and, because I frequently use places I've visited as the setting for a story, remembering what prompted me to write each particular book. It's been an enjoyable journey. So has the game I started playing, which was trying to decide which one could best be adapted into a film for the silver screen!

Pie in the sky I know, but fun nevertheless.

Out of all my books Miss Locatelli won. It has all the ingredients. A family business and a family mystery. A burglary. A far too sexy 'bad boy turned good' Italian hero. A quirky heroine with a prodigious talent and a temper to match. Some fabulous and some less than fabulous clothes! Jewellery. A large Italian family. Mouth-watering Italian food. Settings in London, England and Florence, Italy. And, of course, the ubiquitous misunderstandings that keep the reader turning the pages of a romantic fiction novel until the very end.

Then there is the intoxicating thought of all those long distance drone shots of the wonderful Italian countryside as well as the close ups of life in Florence with my characters walking across the The Ponte Vecchio or staring up at the iconic Duomo.  Equally intoxicating is the imagined bird's eye view of the River Thames in London, the Houses of Parliament, the parks, the interior of one of the city's famous hotels. If only!

I'm quite sure actually having my book turned into a film would be far less exciting than imagining it. For a start I would lose control and have to watch as producers and directors decided to alter parts of my story. None of the actors would look the same as my imagined characters either. The settings would be different from the ones I had imagined, probably the clothes too. They might even leave out my favourite scene or, horror of horrors, change the ending! It happens.

While J K Rowling, whose Harry Potter books were such best sellers long before they were filmed, was able to influence filming, most writers cannot. One writer, when interviewed, said that when she sold her book to a production company she had to accept that the story was no longer hers and just enjoy spending the money instead. And that is another problem. Mostly writers make very little money despite their book being the heart of the film. And then there are all those other books, the ones that despite being sold  never actually make it to the silver screen.

Still, imaging how my book might be adapted has been good fun, and trying to decide which particular scene I would most like to see filmed was too, although in the case of Miss Locatelli  I'm still working on it. It's been a good mental exercise and who knows, it might just prompt me to start putting words on paper again.

Try it with one of your own books if you are a writer. And if you're not, then try imagining filming your favourite novel or, better still, your favourite book from Books We Love. 

Let's be positive for a change...by Sheila Claydon

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I always try to find a link to one of my books when I blog, but this time it is a very weak one! In Remembering Rose (Book 1 of Mapleby Memories) Rachel's one hospital visit to see her grandmother is a very small part of the story. Hospital visits this month, however, are a much bigger part of my and my husband's story. There is also a slight resemblance in that, like hers, they were far from dispiriting.  Most importantly, however, I am writing this piece as a counterpoint to the almost daily negative Press coverage of the UK's National Health Service (NHS). 

My husband, aged 82, has been an avid and very good tennis player for 70+ years.The downside of this  was that he needed a new hip. He wasn't desperate because, with a painkiller, he could still play, and as all his team mates are over 70 these days it was never going to be so physically challenging that he could no longer cope.  He did, however, make a doctor's appointment on the advice of his physiotherapist, who told him the sooner the better while he still had the necessary musculature to help him with his recovery. 

Within a month of that first doctor's appointment he had had the operation and was home. He was operated on only12 days after seeing the surgeon. No 2 year wait, no 7.5 million waiting list, no traumatic tales of delays and less than optimum care. Everything ran like clockwork. The aids and adaptations necessary for his recovery were delivered at the promised time, the nurses, doctors and ward orderlies were all cheerful, caring and dedicated. Nothing was too much trouble and when he attended the occupational therapy clinic to prepare him, he was introduced to other patients waiting for the same operation.  

He was actually playing tennis when I received the call saying he was booked in for 3 days hence so had to attend a pre-operative check later that afternoon. 

We had to be at the hospital at 7.30 on a Sunday morning (yes, some of our medics do work weekends despite what the media says) and by the time I visited that evening he was in bed recovering, and although hooked up to various machines, had eaten a good meal and was very cheerful. The next day he was up and dressed and doing the mandatory physio and the day after that he was home! District nurses turned up when they said they would to tend the wound and remove the sutures, the GP pharmacy sorted out his meds and made arrangements for a post operative check, and now, only 3 weeks later, he's walking unaided up to a mile at a time and no longer needs any special care.

Much of his recovery is down to his general good health and strong muscles of course, so not everyone will be so lucky, but many will be. One of the two lovely surgeons who operated told him that hip replacement is one of her favourite jobs as it gives people their life back, and she is right. And what is even more important is that all of this excellent care was free, including all the the aids and medication. We were prepared to pay privately if, as the daily news seemed to convey, he was going to have to wait years, but when he suggested this to his doctor, he dismissed it, saying let's test the NHS first as I don't think that will be necessary.

There are similar tales. One friend has just had a stent inserted following a mild heart attack. Another is waiting for a new heart valve and has been told she will probably have it done by the end of the month. Another has been given a 3-year open appointment with his surgeon in case the 'wait and watch' treatment he is receiving breaks down and he needs more urgent care. And these are in different hospitals in different parts of the country, so it's not just special where we live. And to top it all, we have just been booked into a local pharmacy for our booster Covid and Flu vaccines. All free. All without any angst or waiting. 

We feel very blessed and we also wish that just once in a while the British Press would report some of these positives instead of making the UK, and especially the NHS, look as if it is going to hell in a handcart. It isn't! 

On a lighter note, here is the short extract of Rachel's hospital visit in Remembering Rose, where her nonagenarian grandma is playing her part as a link between Rachel and Rose, Rachel's long dead great-great-grandmother, who has breeched the boundaries of time itself to stop her great-great-granddaughter making the biggest mistake of her life.

    Grandma was as pale as the pillow behind her head and Ma didn't look much better. They smiled when Daniel and I walked up to the bed though. Ma with relief and Grandma with satisfaction.

    "Rose said you'd both come," she told me, and then closed her eyes.

    I shrugged when Ma raised her eyebrows, and for once I wasn't lying. I had no idea what Rose had told Grandma. I didn't find out for ages either because she wasn't talking. Ma looked at her inert figure in consternation.

    "She seems to have worn herself out calling for you."

    I took hold of one of Grandma's hands. It was warm and I felt a faint pressure as her fingers curled in mine. She wasn't asleep, she was just binding her time. I settled down to wait.

    Ma stayed in the chair opposite and Daniel set off in search of coffee. When he returned with three cardboard cups of questionable liquid he suggested Ma take a break once she had finished hers. "I passed the hospital canteen on my way back to the ward and the lunch smells good," he said.

    I saw my chance. "Why don't you both go? You haven't had a thing since early this morning Daniel, and Ma would probably appreciate the company. I'll be fine here with Grandma until you get back."

    They both looked doubtful, Daniel because he had seen how panicked I was earlier, and Ma because she was worried. "I wish we had never shown her a single photo, let alone tried to persuade her to remember the past. She's done nothing but talk about Granny Rose ever since she saw that picture of her. On her worst days she even confuses her with you, Rachel, so who knows what she'll say when she wakes up and sees you next to the bed."

    I aimed for a suitably understanding expression as I nodded my agreement because I knew that if I didn't Ma wouldn't leave me on my own with Grandma."It's only because I look a bit like Rose," I said, as I wondered how long it would be before Ma and Daniel totally trusted my sanity again. Then I remembered all the times I had seen Rose and spoken to her and I didn't blame them because I wasn't entirely sure how sane I was myself anymore.

    "I suppose so," Ma looked doubtful. She didn't demur when Daniel asked her a second time though. Draining her coffee cup, she stood up and stretched. Then she picked up the large tote bag she carries with her everywhere and followed him out of the ward. Left to my own devices but aware that we didn't have that much time, I squeezed Grandma's hand.

    "You can open your eyes now because they've gone."

    She peered at me through two slits. I laughed. "Did Rose put you up to this?"

    "Rose wanted Daniel, too."

    "You mean she wanted me to realise how much I need Daniel and this was the only way she could arrange it. I suppose she was the one who made me forget to switch on my cell phone this morning too." I was getting better at reading Rose's mind by the minute. I was also beginning to have an inkling about what she was up to.

    Grandma nodded. "She made me promise."

    I frowned. "Well, from now on you can tell her to leave you out of it. If she wants to talk to me she knows where I live."

    But Grandma was too intent on relaying the rest of her message to listen. "Daniel is a good man."

    "I know he is, and so was Arthur. Tell Rose I know she loved Arthur. Tell her I understand."

* * *

    

Reluctant Date's setting Unveiled ...by Sheila Claydon

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This is a blog I never expected to write and I wish I didn't have to!

About 12 years ago I enjoyed a truly memorable holiday with my husband and another couple who have been our friends for more than 40 years. Although we have been lucky enough to visit many countries across the world, often being hosted by locals who have helped us to properly engage with the peoples and their culture, this particular holiday remains one of the very best.

We arrived late in a hire car and, due to a lack of street lights, found navigating the small town a bit of a challenge. This continued when we finally located our motel and the carpark turned out be a dusty area strewn with shingle and ankle-turning rocks. The building was on stilts so there were stairs to tackle before we reached the very small elevator and squashed in with our suitcases.  Climbing them would have been almost as daunting as our journey if it hadn't been for the occasional light set into the planking. What had we let ourselves in for?

We had booked an apartment for 4 but at first glance wondered if we'd got it wrong. As one of our party had a knee problem she decided not to climb the exceedingly narrow spiral staircase unless she had to, so my husband and I said we would investigate. At the top of the staircase we were confronted by a large double bed that almost exactly fitted the room, and what appeared to be a large cupboard. When we opened it we realised we were in fact on an upstairs 'balcony' or mezzanine, which would give us a great view of our friends who would be sleeping below on a bed settee that had to be made up every night.

We were still laughing when we opened the doors to the downstairs balcony, and there it was. The Gulf of Mexico right outside. Moonlight illuminated a calm sea and there was nothing but silence. We had never experienced anything quite like it and could hardly wait for what the following day had to offer.

The next morning we woke to sun shining through the skylight in the upstairs bedroom while seagulls squawked as they spied on us through the glass. Hurrying down the very decidedly hazardous stairs and onto the balcony we were greeted by a pod of dolphins leaping across the sunlit Gulf on their way to breakfast. Needless to say we ate our own breakfast and every subsequent breakfast on that balcony after that, revelling in how close we were to nature as large numbers of horseshoe crabs gathered on the sandy beach below us while brown pelicans clustered like a group of old men on some broken wooden spars and sandpipers picked a delicate path along the shore. We discovered many other birds later, cormorants and osprey, buffleheads and white pelicans to name just a few, but it was the dolphins that transfixed us. They came every day at the same time, morning and evening, so breakfast and an evening drink on the balcony swiftly became mandatory! 

This place, which cast a magical spell on us from the start, is in fact a small island city (700 inhabitants) off the northwest coast of Florida. You will have read about it recently when Hurricane Idalia engulfed it in a nearly 7-foot storm surge, inundating the lowest parts of the island and destroying or severely damaging many homes and businesses. 

It is Cedar key.

Cedar Key, despite its size and the quaintness of some of its aspects, is a place of so much history from the Civil War onwards. Once a busy port, it now describes itself as a walkable island paradise. It is tiny, with a total area of 2.1square miles, most of which is water. It is part of the Cedar Key National Wildlife Refuge, a group of small islands with nature trails and rich birdlife. The devastation caused by Idalia's 7 foot storm surge and 200 km winds is heartbreaking. I don't know if our holiday motel has survived. It might be the one that was washed into the Gulf. What I do know is that 90% of Cedar key's downtown was underwater following the storm surge, docks and piers were knocked out and many homes destroyed. Now the water has subsided and the bridge, which is the only road in and out, is passable again, the mammoth task of clearing the debris, mud and sand is underway, to say nothing of restoring the power, water and sewerage.  

Our holiday there was so perfect that while we often talked about returning we always worried that it wouldn't be the same the second time around, so we never did go, and now there is no Cedar Key to return to. I just hope that the community will be able to rebuild the same as they did after other hurricanes in 1896 and in 1950. They have also survived storm surges and according to one of its residents, that's what some people were expecting this time, a tropical storm they could sit out drinking wine and playing cards, the same as they have done before. Sadly Idalia had other ideas. I just hope that at some time in the future Cedar Key will again be the wonderful place it once was and that its community will thrive again.

Why did I have to write about this? Well many of my books are set in places I have visited but, apart from the cities, I always anonymise them, so the only indication that Reluctant Date is set in Cedar Key is the dolphins leaping in the background on the book cover. In my story it is called Dolphin Key and, with apologies to the owners, I've upgraded the apartment we stayed in just a little. Much else is authentic though and if you read my book you will quickly understand why I found the whole place so entrancing. The counter setting towards the beginning of the book is the northwest coast of England, the two juxtaposed together. Both are coastal communities, both are nature reserves, but they are so very different, and then, of course, there is the romance. 

I could write a great deal more about Cedar Key, from our visit to the nearby and equally magical Suwanee River to our daily trip to the best ice cream parlour ever, and how, instead of using our car, we had  to hire a golf cart to travel locally. I could tell you that the airport is a grass strip with Ospreys nesting on the top of the surrounding trees and that a sunset voyage on a flat bottomed boats is an unforgettable experience, but as so much of this is part of my story you can read it for yourself. If you want to experience Cedar Key's true magic then follow Claire and Daniel's romance in Reluctant Date. 

Thanks to the Internet I will be able to follow the rebuilding of Cedar Key. In the meantime I will never forget what was a truly magical holiday and below is a small extract from Reluctant Date that I hope explains it. It is when Daniel takes Claire to see the white pelicans on her first morning in Dolphin Key....

    They didn't say very much for a while after that. Daniel was too busy guiding the dinghy round the pier and out into the bay, and Claire was too busy absorbing everything that came into view. Only when she laughed out loud at the sight of at least twenty brown pelicans perched every which way on a derelict wooden structure that had collapsed into the sea, did Daniel speak.

    "Its the local doss house," he told her with a grin. "Once upon a time it was part of an old landing stage but most of it disintegrated years ago. These guys took this bit over a few years back and now it's one of the iconic images of Dolphin Key. You'll see it everywhere. On postcards, books, posters...even on letterheads."

    "I can see why. It's just so funny, and yet picturesque at the same time," Claire turned her head as he steered the dinghy away from the pelicans and their dilapidated roost.

    "The white pelicans are a bit different," he told her, opening up the throttle in a noisy burst as they sped across the bay."Much more stately; they are almost aristocracy compared to their common cousins."

    But Claire had stopped listening to him. Instead she was looking over his shoulder, her eyes wide with disbelief. He turned his head to follow her gaze and was just in time to see a pod of dolphins flip into the air before arcing back into the sea.

    "Hunting for breakfast," he said. "Same as the white pelicans will be. Everyone eats early around here."

    After looking in vain for another sighting, Claire brought her gaze reluctantly back to the boat. Daniel smiled at her. "You first time?"

    She nodded.

    "It gets everyone the same way. Soon you'll be used to it though. There are so many of them around here that before long you will start to recognise individual dolphins because they swim in a particular place at a regular time each day."

    Claire stared at him."Are you serious? This just gets more and more like fantasy land!"

    He grinned at her. "You'd better believe it. Was I right that you will love living here?"

    "Maybe."

Monkey nuts, lions and waterfalls...by Sheila Claydon

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A lot of my books are about other countries. A few of them mention local traditions. The Hollywood Collection is one of them! 

* * * * *

In the fourteenth century a Sumatran prince sought shelter from a thunderstorm by sailing his ship into the protected inland harbour of a small island. The first thing he saw was a strange beast unlike anything he had seen before. He was told it was a lion - a Singa in Malay. He paired it with the Malay word for city - Pura. And from that time on the small island was known as Singapore. 

It is an unverifiable legend of course but one that is still told with relish today by Singaporeans despite lions never having roamed their island.

It would also be a wonderful beginning for a story of adventure and mystery, especially as in the fourteenth century that inland harbour was no more than a small fishing village. So many characters could be brought to life, so much history reimagined. It would take a better skill than mine to do it justice though, particularly  as modern thinking frowns on misappropriating cultures and ethnicities, so I will skip the intervening seven centuries and concentrate on Singapore today.

In my last post I said I would report back when I returned from visiting my son and family who now live there, and what an adventure it has been. Today it is very far from that small fishing village. Instead, as a result of a programme of land reclamation, the island is 25% larger, with plans for this to reach at least 30% by 2130. 

This reclaimed land has provided space for what will be the world's largest container port when it is complete as well as Jewel Changi, which is possibly the most iconic airport in the world as well as one of the busiest. It has the world's tallest indoor waterfall as well as a 50 metre canopy bridge, a terraced forest setting, petal gardens full of flowers from around the world, a topiary walk, and so much more. It is known as a place where nature meets retail and Singaporeans who are not travelling anywhere, visit it the same as they would any other shopping mall. 

Shopping malls, small and large, are everywhere. They are also an air-conditioned essential in a country that has an average of 83% humidity, which can even reach 100% during prolonged periods of rain. Although I've visited many countries, I have never felt as hot as I did in my 3 weeks in Singapore. I also learned, very quickly, that an umbrella is a necessity. Not just for the unpredictable rain but for the sun. Much better than a sunhat. An umbrella, sandals and cotton clothes are all that are required. Surprisingly, suncream is not such a necessity as it is impossible to sit in the sun for more than a few minutes at a time. There is, however, a lot of shade because, as well as a myriad of covered walkways, there are many well maintained parks and green spaces. One I visited was the Spice Garden, which was amazing, and it was there that I learned the history of the world wide spice trade that dates back centuries, and the part the nutmeg trade played in the development of Singapore. 

We saw and did so many things that it is impossible to list them here, but one of the most interesting places was Clarke Quay, especially as we were lucky enough to go there with a Singaporean who was passionate about its history. He told us that the Singapore River was the centre of trade from when modern Singapore was founded in 1819 for almost two centuries. Barge lighters would transport goods to the warehouses upstream from the ships moored in the deeper waters of Boat Quay. He could remember this still happening when he was in his teens, whereas now that cargo services have been relocated, the Singapore River, Boat Quay and Clarke Quay have become tourist centres. With warehouses redeveloped into bars and restaurants, and the weather at its best after sunset, it is a lovely area to spend time eating and drinking in the balmy air, or taking a river cruise to see more of the sights.

One of the differences in our time in Singapore, however, was the fact that we weren't really tourists. Instead, we lived like the Singaporeans, shopping for food, meeting neighbours, mixing with people from different nationalities, eating often at a Hawker centre, which is a very enjoyable Singaporean experience.These are  open air complexes that sell a wide variety of delicious multicultural food and drinks at affordable price as opposed to the more expensive restaurants and bars. We did manage a few of those as well, however, especially Raffles Hotel. 

Sir Stamford Raffles is known as the founder of modern Singapore. He signed the official treaty that gave the British East India Company the right to set up a trading post and raise the British flag. In his short time there he helped to remodel Singapore into a modern city, established the settlement as a free port, founded an administration of justice to ensure peace and order, abolished slavery, opened schools and established a national library. Although Singapore is now independent there are still many references to him as well as an imposing statue, but, apart from its name, the famous Raffles Hotel has nothing to do with him. 

Originally a privately owned beach house, it was named Raffles when it eventually became an hotel. At that time was considered the epitome of luxury as it boasted the only electric lights and fans in Singapore.  In its heyday it attracted the rich and famous. Nowadays it is the must go place for tourists and we duly visited to sample the required Singapore Sling! A gin based pink cocktail containing pineapple juice, lime juice, curaçao and Benedictine, it has an intriguing history. At the turn of the century ladies could not consume alcohol in public, so drank teas and fruit juices while their menfolk drank gin or whisky. A Raffles bartender, Ngiam Tong Boon, decided to create a cocktail that looked like fruit juice while being infused with gin and liqueurs. He used grenadine and cherry liqueur to make it pink, leading people to think it was a socially acceptable drink for women. How times have changed!

Raffles Hotel has one other tradition. On each table is a small cloth sack full of monkey nuts. Patrons may eat as many as they wish but only if they throw the shells onto the floor. Apparently this harks back to when the floors at Raffles were made of wood and became very dusty. The nut shells helped to keep the dust down and also made it easier to sweep. Nowadays, despite newer flooring, the tradition remains.

Visiting different countries and learning about their history, their culture and their quirky traditions from the people who live there is a privilege, and Singapore and its friendly citizens is certainly somewhere I won't forget.

Holiday reading...by Sheila Claydon

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I will be on holiday in Singapore when this is published and although it is a family visit, which I know will include more card and board games than I actually want but, as a good grandmother, I will play, my mind has already turned to holiday reading.

Some of the books I've most enjoyed I've discovered on holiday, not because I've chosen and taken them with me but because I've found them on the pre-loved shelf in a hotel or on a cruise ship, visited a secondhand bookshop in a newly discovered town or village, or, on one occasion, bought in a sale in a National Trust stately home. 

When I'm at home my book choices are mostly governed by conversations with friends, titles I've read about, what is on the suggestion table at the library or a book giftedly by someone. On holiday it is different. I go with the flow, open to anything that looks interesting, and over the years this has introduced me to authors I'd never heard of whose books have given me immense pleasure.  Whether such a laissez-faire attitude will be possible in Singapore I don't know, but I hope so. 

Often the books I write are set in places where I've been on vacation because my other holiday activity is taking in the atmosphere, the scenery and the people, learning about the culture and enjoying the food. So much so that the tagline on my website is a ticket to romance!

While nearly every one of my novels is linked to somewhere I have visited, the two that offer the reader the best means of holiday escape are Cabin Fever and Reluctant Date. I visited and enjoyed the places featured in the books so much that I just had to write about them. 

Cabin Fever takes the reader from London to New Zealand and then on a cruise to Australia and back again, while Reluctant Date is set on the North West coast of the UK and an idyllic Florida key, with a trip to the Swanee River thrown in. Sometimes I take these, and others, down from the shelf in my study and re-read them to remind myself of past times and why I had to write the story. I hope that while I am in Singapore I will be equally inspired...and maybe I'll find another of those serendipitous books as well.

Holiday dilemma...by Sheila Claydon

 

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I'm going on holiday, well to visit my son and family actually but I've been assured it will be a holiday. In Singapore. So much to look forward to...seeing my nine year old granddaughter again, catching up with my son and daughter-in-law in person instead of on WhatsApp or Skype, spending 3 weeks in the sun in what I've been assured is a lovely holiday destination. What's not to like? 

My dilemma? Finding the right clothes. It's not that I'm short of summer tops, shorts and trousers but they are all geared to a UK summer. With very little humidity and erratic weather, wearing synthetic fabrics is not a problem. Nor, except occasionally, do I have to slather myself in suncream or remember to wear a hat. In Singapore it seems, things are very different.

Added to this is the fact that because I live a mainly coastal/rural life where walking the dog through woodland or on the beach requires the most practical of clothes and shoes, as does gardening or meeting up with friends for a hike, my wardrobe is full of t-shirts, sweaters, jeans, cropped trousers, trainers and hiking boots. These are clothes that are also totally suited to sitting at the computer writing.  There's not a dress in sight although I do have a couple of pretty tops for the occasional party or dinner.

When I was working it wasn't like that. My wardrobe was full of formal working suits, dresses with jackets, skirts, even trouser-suits because it was a career that encompassed a lot of travel and Boardroom meetings. When I retired, however, everything hung unworn in the wardrobe for far too long until, eventually, I passed  them onto a charity shop. Not that they would have been suitable for Singapore anyway as they would have been too warm. So now I have to do my least favourite thing and go shopping to find clothes that I will rarely be able to wear in the UK.  As I have left it so late in the season, however, at least the prices will have reduced, and I'm sure I'll love them when I get them home.

Arabella, my heroine in Miss Locatelli faced the same dilemma. She was a jeans and sweater type of girl when she wasn't wearing motorcycle leathers, so when she suddenly had to travel to Italy to take charge of her grandfather's ailing jewellery empire she had to revamp her wardrobe in a hurry. With her best friend's help she initially managed to get it so spectacularly wrong that it was very nearly her undoing. I loved writing about Arabella's quirky take on things as much as Luca, the hero, did while falling in love with her. I especially enjoyed the fact that their story took me back to the times I visited Florence and saw for myself the elegance of  Italian business women and enjoyed the wonders of Italian food.  It's a book for anyone who either loves or wants to visit Italy.

Arabella knows her audacious plan to save her family’s century old jewelry business doesn’t stand a chance without Luca Enzio, she just wishes he wasn’t helping her because her grandfather asked him to but because he wants to.

 For his part Luca can’t remember when he was last so turned on by a woman and he doesn’t like it one little bit. Apart from being way too young, Arabella is the granddaughter of a client whose relationship with his family is complicated. The right thing to do would be to walk away but his heart has other ideas.

Then her life begins to unravel in a way that affects both of them and suddenly Luca finds himself fighting for his future as well as for Arabella’s heart.

While my small wardrobe revamp will be of no significance to anyone but me, of course, maybe Singapore will affect me the same way Italy does, and feature in my next book. Oh, and there's one other positive. As my new clothes will really only be useful for Singapore I'll just have to go there again!

All creatures great and small…by Sheila Claydon

 Some of my books have wild animals in the story but experiencing the real thing is something different!

Am having such an amazing week. My eldest granddaughter has almost completed a year’s internship at Shaldon Wildlife Trust as part of her biology and veterinary training. The zoo, which is set in beautiful semi tropical woodland, is home to some of the rarest and most endangered species known to man. It is regarded as one of the best zoos in the UK for the conservation of critically endangered primates.

 Only yesterday, a year old margay (a small South American wild cat with spectacular light brown and dark brown markings) was transferred to a zoo in France as part of the European breeding program. The margay is on what is known as the IUCN red list for threatened species. Its numbers have declined dramatically due to loss of habitat caused by deforestation as well as the illegal wildlife pet trade!

The zoo has golden lion tamarins, cotton-top tamarins, red ruffed lemurs, red titi monkeys, venomous slow loris, yellow-breasted capuchins, the list goes on. There are also various poisonous dart frogs, one of whose poison can kill 10 men just by touching a small cut in their skin. This poison is still used by hunters on the tips of their arrows. 

There are many more primates, reptiles and birds in the zoo, all in small groups and all mainly kept for breeding, education, and sharing with other similar zoos worldwide in an attempt to maintain viable numbers. In some cases this is more a question of faith than certainty but the work goes on thanks to dedicated conservationists, zookeepers and veterinarians amidst a continual plea for funding. 

One of the ways they raise money is to offer the public ‘experiences’ in strictly limited numbers and this is why I’m having such a good time. I’ve not only fed the lemurs, meerkats and cotton-top tamarins, I’ve been able to watch some of the positive reinforcement training necessary to encourage animals to voluntarily enter crates for veterinary visits, as well as less stressful transports to other zoos.

All the animals have immaculately kept and generous inside and outside accommodation, at least 3 nutritionally balanced meals a day and, where appropriate, enrichment activities to encourage their natural wild behaviours. This is especially important for the cleverer animals as well as the larger groups to make sure that everyone is always occupied!

I can’t begin to explain how it felt when a tiny (0.4kg), critically endangered cotton-top tamarin took a peanut from my hand or a meerkat sat on my lap while I held its food bowl other than to say it was a great privilege to get so close to wild creatures and have them look me in the eye as if sizing me up! All approaches are made by the animals. Visitors are not allowed to pet them or touch them in any way and have to respect their habitat, so for one to decide to climb on you and trust you in such a way is a privilege indeed.

That such zoos are necessary is the sadness. The illegal pet trade, deforestation, the development of agricultural mono crops and, in the past, overhunting, have led to the need for safety-net populations and breeding programs to ensure the continued survival of so many species. Mankind is driving so many wild creatures to near extinction that it is heartbreaking.

The Key of the Door....by Sheila Claydon

 

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I'm 21 today, 21 today

I've got the key of the door

Never been 21 before

And Pa says I can do as I like

So shout, Hip Hip Hooray

He's a jolly good fellow 

21 today

We took flowers and presents and we all sang the first 3 lines before my eldest granddaughter blew out the candles and we did shout Hip Hip Hooray before she cut the cake but that was as far as we went. This traditional coming of age song  (in the UK) is long and meandering and meant to be sung by a young man because when it was written (1911), young ladies didn't enjoy a similar independence.

So why do we celebrate 21 so enthusiastically and does it happen world wide? Interested, I did some research and discovered that in the UK it stems from medieval times when a young boy was training to become a knight. At 7 years of age he would leave home to become page to a knight and for the next 7 years would be his servant. Not until he reached the grand age of 14 would he be made a squire and his duties elevated to looking after his master's armour and weapons and to saddling his horse. His duties stretched further. He was also expected to follow his knight into battle acting as his flag bearer, and in the unfortunate event of his master being killed, would have to bury him. A very different life from the 14 year olds in Western countries today! 

If the boy managed to survive all of that and grow to manhood he would be dubbed a knight in his own right when he reached the age of 21, and be celebrated. 

From this, and very gradually, 21 became the established age of majority. While the tradition was to give the  young person the key of the door, symbolising that they were old enough to make their own decisions and come and go as they pleased, legally it was significant.  It was the age when people could marry without parental consent, the age when an apprenticeship ended in many trades, the age at which a person could vote, the age in which guardianship came to an end for orphaned children. There were exceptions of course, because until the Equal Franchise Act was passed in 1928 women could not vote until they were 30 and then only if they owned property. 

There were other anomalies too. Young couples who managed to travel to Scotland could marry at 16 and, despite the many changes in the law that have taken place in the past century, Gretna Green, where most of these marriages took place, is still considered a place of romance, with couples from all around the world choosing to get married there in a ceremony performed over a blacksmith's anvil in a centuries old tradition. So popular was the idea that it was sometimes part of a plot in fiction in earlier times, the best example being Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austin.

Nowadays, with the legal majority reduced to 18, celebrating a 21st birthday carries far less significance and is mainly only celebrated because it's fun, and everyone likes a party! There are, however, still one or two things that cannot be undertaken until a person of either sex reaches their 21 majority. For example  they cannot drive large vehicles, gain a pilot's licence, supervise a learner driver, or adopt a child. Fortunately I don't think my granddaughter is contemplating any of those things. She just enjoyed her party!

Postscript:

In the UK in Anglo-Saxon times a young person was considered adult at the age of 11. This was later increased to 12, which continued until Norman times when the age of majority was extended to 16 except for those training to become knights. How times have changed. We no longer send children as young as 5 into the black hellhole of underground mines, or up chimneys to sweep out the soot, or into battle at 14. Nor do apprentices any longer sleep where they work, relying solely on their masters for the food they eat. Sadly, in many of the war torn and poverty stricken countries around the world, however, similar things still happen. Children have no option but to take on responsibilities that would deter most adults. Children as young as 5 work 14 hour days picking cacao beans while 11 year olds work from dawn to dusk in the heat and dirt of a blacksmith's forge because they are their family's main or only breadwinner. There are children who have to scavenge on scrap heaps, others who work in unregulated factories and, even more dreadfully, there are still 14 year olds who have to go into battle, not with a flag following their knight, but with rifles and machetes as they fight for their lives and the lives of their families.  While these are not things that need to be contemplated by more fortunate youngsters enjoying a 21st birthday party, hopefully they will at least think of them later when they realise that, at last, the really are adults.