Just because it's Twixmas...

I have a little Christmas story for you.  I hope you enjoy it...

A Tale of Snow and Sheep

Jack Frost, a shrewd and dour man, stretched his long, bony leg across the ice-blue seat of the Vespa.  His life-long friend and business partner Emmanuel Snow, Manny to everyone who knew him, concertinaed himself into the inadequately small sidecar.  Once settled, Manny looped his long scarf around his back, under his arms and tied it securely above his large, round head.  Jack was known throughout the town as something of a speed freak.

  “That son of yours needs to learn some manners,” said Jack as he set the vehicle’s engine running.

  Manny, unable to turn his head, merely shifted his coal black eyes to the right and stared.  “I don’t know what you mean,” he retorted.

  Jack pulled out into the traffic. “It’s not appropriate for Little Snow to ask a client on the other end of the phone out for a drink.”

  Had Manny been created with eyebrows, they would have shot to the top of his head and disappeared under his long stripy scarf.  “I’m sure he did no such thing.”

  “I was there,” sniffed Jack as he pulled up at a T-junction.  “I heard him.”  Jack took a left and headed down the lane towards Peep’s Farm.  “He’s fourteen,” continued Jack.  “His ice crystals are raging, and any cute passing female is going to get his temperature rising.”

  Jack pulled into the entrance to the farm and parked in front of the small farm shop.  “And by the way,” said Jack, removing his helmet and placing it on the seat. “Your son Little is now insisting that we call him Snow, and only Snow. He says it sounds cool.”

  Manny pushed himself out of the sidecar and untied his scarf.  “Well, I suppose we will have to indulge him on the name thing,” he said, throwing the scarf around his neck. “But I will have words with him about what being the face and voice of the detective agency means in practice.”  Manny stroked his round tummy and re-aligned the coals that ran the full length of his ample chest.

  Jack nodded his approval and strode into the farm shop.  “Jack Frost and Emmanuel Snow, Frost and Snow Detective Agency,” he announced to the young woman behind the till.  “We’re looking for a Miss Bo Peep.”

  “That’s me, Mr Frost,” said the young woman coming out from behind her counter.   She lead them across to a nearby table and sat down.  “My sheep have gone,” she blurted out as tears began to course down her face.  “I’m very worried about them.” Miss Peep dabbed at her eyes.

  “When did you last see your sheep?” Jack pulled a notebook out of the top pocket of his morning coat.

  “Yesterday,” sobbed Bo.  “In the top field.  I moved them into that field first thing yesterday morning.”

  “And did you notice anything unusual about the sheep?”

  Miss Peep frowned.  “Not really, no.  They all seemed quite happy.  Their food trough was full, and I’d already cracked the ice floating on their water.  When I went to check on them this morning, they were all gone.”  Another stream of tears trickled down her face.  Jack picked up one of the paper napkins set on the table and handed it to her.

  “OK, Miss Peep.  I know how upsetting this must be for you, but I need you to remain calm.  How many sheep were there, and can you describe them?”

  “Twenty-four, and they’re all fluffy and white.”

Jack let out a sigh.  “What about any distinguishing marks?  To help you identify your sheep from Farmer McDonald’s for instance.”

  “Oh yes, I see what you mean.  They all have a pink bow painted on their left flank.  It’s rose pink.  Such a lovely colour don’t you think?”

  Jack kept his eyes on the page as he scribbled a note.  Manny took up the questioning.

  “And, when you went to the sheep this morning was the gate to the field open or shut?”

  “Open.”

  “And the gate was shut before the sheep disappeared?”

  “Oh yes.  After I let the sheep into the field, I closed the gate firmly behind me.  I’m always most particular about that.”

  “Good, Miss Peep,” said Jack as he cast an authoritative eye at Manny. “That’s important.  Now, have the sheep ever gone missing before?”

  “No!  Never.”

  Not wishing to be excluded Manny leaned forward on the small table.  “But what about the sheep, Miss Peep?  They are curious animals, you know.  Can any of them open the gate?”

  “Umm, I… umm.  Well, no I don’t think so.  If they can I’ve never seen them try.”

  “This pink bow, can it be washed off?”  Jack waited for her answer, pen poised.

  “No.  It’s indelible, and it lasts until they are shorn in Spring.”

  “OK,” said Jack, snapping his notebook shut.  “So, we’re looking for twenty-four sheep, fleeces intact, with a pink decal, that have been missing from the top field since what time?”

  “It would be about eight-thirty this morning when I first noticed the field was empty.”  Fresh tears pearled in her wide blue eyes.

  “OK, Miss Peep.  Leave this to us.

An hour later, Frost and Snow had made a complete recce of the top field.

  “So what have we got, Manny?”

  “Look at this, Jack,” said Manny as he scrutinised the latch on the open gate.  “I’d say that’s a trace of blood.  Possibly animal, but could be human.”

  Jack bent double to see the evidence.  “Agreed,” he said.  “And that padlock has been cut,” he noted as he turned his attention to the large rusty locking mechanism that had been abandoned on the snowy entrance to the field.

  “And there are no traces of snow on the latch,” said Manny.  “If it was an inside job, and one of the sheep had escaped with all the others, I’d expect to see snow from a front hoof here and here.  But there’s nothing.  Just the trace of blood.”

  “Hm… Get that analysed,” said Jack.  Manny set about collecting the sample.

  “These hoof marks show the flock headed a short way down the lane towards town.  Ten metres further up there are cart tracks.”

  Manny followed his partner down the lane. “But have you noticed the front left wheel of the cart?”

  Jack swiftly moved to where Manny was stood.

  “Look,” said Manny.  “There’s a burr on the iron rim.  I’ve made a cast of the indentation, so we should be able to match that exactly.”

  “So there is.”  Jack squatted down to examine the cart track closely.  “If we can find the cart we have a chance of finding the sheep if they are still in the area.  We’ll start with Miss Muffet’s farm and gradually work our way around the others.”

Just before lunch, Jack and Manny pulled up outside McDonald’s Farm.  Jack cut the engine.

  “This is the last one,” he said as he stowed his helmet.  “I’ll go to the house and you check—”

  “MacDonald’s cart is just there, look.” Manny was already on his way to the open barn.  Jack waited by the Vespa as Manny disappeared inside the wooden building.  A few moments later he emerged.

  “It’s definitely a match, Jack.”

  “Right.  Let’s go to the house.  Leave the talking to me.”

  A sharp rap on the door brought Mrs MacDonald to the threshold.

  “Morning, Mr Frost.  What can I do for you today?”

  “Morning, Mrs MacDonald,” said Jack.  “I’m here on official business.  Is your husband in?”

  “No I’m afraid he isn’t.  He’s down in Low Field with the vet’nary.  I’m not expecting him back for another couple of hours or so.”

  “Maybe you can help me Mrs MacDonald.  Your cart Ma’m.  Was your husband or anyone else in the family using it yesterday?”

  “Errr… No… I don’t think so.  Oh no, wait a minute.  Yes.  Sweeney Todd.  He came and borrowed the cart on Monday evening and brought it back around two yesterday afternoon.  So no.  We didn’t use the cart yesterday.  Well, we couldn’t have could we?”

  “Sweeney Todd?”  Jack cast Manny an anxious glance.  “Did he say what he needed the cart for?”

  “Not to me.  He might have done to my husband.  He just rolled up, as cheery as you like, poked his head round my backdoor, and said ‘Farmer MacDonald says I can use your cart’ and off he went.  Never a bye nor leave!  That young man thinks too much of himself if you ask me.”

  “And you are sure this was Monday evening?”  Manny asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “About what time?”  Jack asked.

  “I was taking my apple pie out of the oven, so it would be about five or just after.”

  “You say he returned the cart yesterday afternoon at about two.  Are you certain about the time?”

  “Oh yes.  I’d just sat down to listen to my favourite radio program when I saw him through the kitchen window driving the cart down towards the big barn.”

  “Thank you, Mrs MacDonald.  You’ve been very helpful.” Jack nodded and strode across the yard towards the bike.

  “I’ve got a nasty feeling about this.”  Jack strapped his helmet on and started the engine.

Pulling up outside Todd’s shop, Jack could feel the blast of heat as a customer left, a bag of baked goodies in his hand.

  “We know Todd had access to MacDonald’s cart.  And we know it was MacDonald’s cart in the lane and that the cart is large enough to transport twenty-four sheep.  Manny, go round the back of the bakery and see if you can find any evidence that he might have brought the sheep here.”

  As Manny slipped into the narrow alley between the bakery and the butchers, Jack yanked open the heavy wood and glass door and marched in.

  “Mr Frost, what can I do for you today?”  An obsequious smile crept across Mr Todd’s face.

  “I’ll have a couple of your famous pork pies please.”

  “Only mutton today I’m afraid.  Baked fresh this morning they were.  Would you like me to put them in the blast chiller for you Mr Frost?”

  Jack glanced over his shoulder, Manny was nowhere to be seen.  “Yes please,” he said, running a finger around his shirt collar.  “It’s a tad too warm in here for me.”

  “Of course Mr Frost.  I’ll be back in a moment.”

  As Todd disappeared, Manny came in through the shop entrance.  “We’ve got him, Jack,” he whispered.  “I found this sheep’s tail in the alleyway and there are chunks of wool in the bin.”

  “But are they Miss Peep’s sheep?”

  Manny nodded and held up a chunk of wool with a bright, pink hue. “And, if you put your ear to the wall of the abattoir at the back of the Russian butcher’s shop, you can hear the faint sound of bleating.  Rostov and Todd are in on this together.”

  “Those conniving, evil, festering—”

  “Careful, Jack.  This is Facebook.”

  Jack sniffed.  “Get next door and arrest Rostov and I’ll do the honours here.”

  As Manny disappeared the baker returned.

  “Here you are, Mr Frost.  I’ve even chilled the bag for you.”

  Jack clapped his ice-handcuffs on Todd’s wrist as he reached over the counter.  “Sweeney Todd, I’m arresting on suspicion of sheep-rustling and murder.  Anything you have to say will be…”

Much later that afternoon, Jack and Manny returned to their office on Winter Road.  Little Snow was manning the phone, his conversation coming to an end as his father came through the door.

  “Case solved,” said Manny.  “Miss Peep knows of the tragedy that befell two of her sheep and we managed to save the rest from a fate worse than death.  That’s a good result, Little.”  Manny clapped his hand on his son’s shoulder.

  “It’s Snow, Pa.  I’m called Snow, now.”  The boy jumped up and stormed off towards his freezer.  “And the King’s men have found a body,” he shouted over his shoulder.  The slamming of the freezer door put an end to any further discussion.

This story first appeared on the UK Crime Book Club Facebook page on December 11th as part of the #SantasShorts story extravaganza for 2025.  If you want to read more, join the UK Crime Book Club... 

On this day in 1775 …

… author Jane Austen was born in Steventon Hampshire.  As this is the 250th anniversary of her birth and my final post of the year, I had to celebrate the gift of her work to the world.  Read on …

I usually begin my last post of the year with a reference to my method of writing and the paraphernalia required.  This year, I’m turning back the clock to consider what Jane herself might have written at this point.  She certainly wouldn’t be mentioning computers, screens, or keyboards!  But, having re-read her collected letters, I feel sure that she would have written about her plans for the season and the expected enjoyment of catching up with family and friends that she hadn’t seen for some time.

When I consider her novels-and there were more than the six that everyone quotes or regularly talks about-Christmas is mentioned as a greatly anticipated and enjoyable event.  But Christmas for her would have been quite different from the celebrations we take part in.  And yet there are some things that are constant.

A Regency Christmas began on Christmas Eve and lasted through until Twelfth Night.  For Jane, it was a time when ‘everybody unites’¹.  In Persuasion, we see Christmas through the eyes of one of her characters, as Jane describes a large table occupied at one side by a group of chattering girls, and on the other side, 'dishes, pies and trays of food where a group of boys are ‘holding high revel’.  The picture is ‘completed by a roaring Christmas fire, which seemed determined to be heard, in spite of all the noise.’  If Jane were here right now, I’d tell her that I remember similar occasions as a child myself.  No matter what the century, some things hardly change.

In her letters to family, friends, and her publisher, we get a more personal view.  In December 1798, she tells her sister Cassandra how she ‘enjoyed the hard black frosts of last week,’ and comments on the walks she took in the clear air.  A few days later, she bemoans the fact that ‘the snow came to nothing.’  In December 1808, she compliments Cassandra on a ‘composition’ she had jointly written with a Mr Deedes, stating that ‘he has great merit as a writer.’  It would appear that even in the nineteenth century, writers needed other writers’ opinions and support.  No change there, then!  A little later in the same letter, she tells Cassandra, ‘Yes, I mean to go to as many balls as possible.’  Whilst going to balls wouldn’t be my personal choice, I always enjoy meeting up with friends at this time of year for lunch, coffee, or cake, or even all three.  The conversation is the critical part of those events, too.

Christmas is a time to reflect and to be generous.  Jane’s letters echo this, irrespective of to whom she was writing.  Lastly, this time of year is very much about children and the fun and happiness that surrounds them.  In 1817, then at the age of forty-two, Jane wrote to her ‘raeD yssaC’ a complete note backwards!  I guess Jane never really grew up.  It’s only when Christmas comes around that I realise I have never really grown up either!

Lastly, on this very auspicious day, and in the words of Jane Austen, I would like to thank all readers of this blog, readers and reviewers of my books from the bottom of ‘a heart not so tired as the’ left hand ‘belonging to it.’²

Merry Christmas

If you celebrate Christmas, as I always do, may yours be a happy one.  For those that don't celebrate, please accept my best wishes for the final weeks of this year and the future that the next year will bring.  The blog will return on January 13th.

¹ Emma

² Letter to Cassandra 1808 

Ten years ago today ...

... and even now, I can't believe I'm writing this, the first book in the Jacques Forêt mystery series was released into an unsuspecting world of readers.  You can read my original post Here.   A lot has changed since then ...

... not least the content and design of my blog, the variety of articles, and many more things besides.  Casting my mind back to that day in December 2015 and looking back at the infancy of this communications vehicle, I'm amazed and surprised that the blog is still here!  Initially, I intended to use it only to launch the first book.  Naively, back then, I thought that launching the book was the end of the road!  I now know how wrong I was.  But let me start at the very beginning.

I've always been a reader—one of my earliest memories is of visiting Foyles Bookshop on Charing Cross Road in London and being given some money by my parents to buy a book.  I was about four years old at the time.  Books have been my companions ever since, and no, I can't recall the title of that very first purchase!  But I do remember its final demise in my mother's washing machine!  By then, I had other books, and my fever for collecting them has never waned.

What I didn't know until I was about fourteen was that my need for books and stories would become so obsessive that I would decide to become a writer.  My parents were not impressed with this idea!  So, the writing became secretive.  Eventually, exams, study, work, and life as an adult got in the way.  And life remained in the way for decades.

But then I had this great idea about ditching my very pressured and demanding job, and in 2005, freed from the daily grind, I started writing what I really wanted to write.  I also increased my time spent in France, and it was whilst I was travelling back from Provence in September 2007 that I stopped off in my favourite village in the Cévennes.

On arrival, the weather was bright, the sky blue, but a bitterly cold wind was blowing across the col.  Overnight, the beautiful autumnal colours of the trees disappeared beneath a clean white blanket as winter had slipped down through the trees.  As I watched the snow, the first few lines of Messandrierre popped into my head.

I didn't do anything with those few words for quite some time.  Back then, I thought I was writing romance.  Fast forward a few years and some writing courses later, I realised in late 2014 that I finally had a story I thought might go somewhere.  Having got the story to where I thought it needed to be, I then spent some time searching for a publisher, and Crooked Cat came to my rescue.  I will always be grateful to Steph and Laurence from Crooked Cat for taking a chance on me and my stories.

Messandirerre was born on December 8th, 2015.  It was followed by five other stories in the series before Crooked Cat/Darkstroke finally left publishing in September 2024.  A long search to find another publisher, and on January 7th, I signed a new contract and finished book 7.  The preponderance of sevens during this last year seemed to be have been some sort omen.  What I hadn't reckoned on was my new publisher withdrawing from my contract because of an internal re-shuffle within the company.  But, as one door closes, another opens, or so the old adage goes.  In the New Year, I will be able to give you some excellent news.  So, keep watching this space!

In the meantime, Happy Birthday to Messandrierre...

Come stroll with me through …

Photo courtesy of  W.Mobilo, Alamy

… the city of Troyes and a little piece of history.  Read on …

I’m always pleased to finally reach December 1st as each year goes by.  To me, it means Christmas, home, family, and, of course, it’s the Champagne time of year.  For this, my last post about France for 2025, I’m here in Troyes.

With a population of 62,000 inhabitants, the city sits on the River Seine, about 140 km south-east of Paris, at the heart of the Champagne region of France.  The city developed in the early Roman times and quickly became prosperous because of its location at a central hub for early transport and trade.  Troyes' long and varied history can be witnessed in the architecture of the city, from the medieval timbered houses in the heart of the old town, to the Gothic Basilica of Saint Urbain, the C17th stained-glass windows of Saint Martine-ès-Vignes, to the modernity of the much later surrounding urban town of today.  But, as interesting as all of that is, it’s not why I’m here today.

Back in 1910 and 1911, these medieval streets in the heart of Troyes and many other towns and cities across the Marne and Aube, and the Champagne region of France, as it was then defined, were running with champagne.  Rivers of the sparkling wine were deliberately spilt onto the streets, vineyards ripped up, and cellars emptied of their casks in protest.  Such destruction has echoes of the Luddites and might seem senseless to a 21st-century thinker. But a succession of bad harvests, a blight of phylloxera, and an apparent attempt by the large Champagne houses to squeeze out the many small growers was enough to set those vintners out onto the streets until they were heard.  According to the local growers, the fundamental principles of centuries of French existence, liberté, égalité and fraternité had been replaced by tyrannie.

In the years leading up to the riots, a nasty little bug, phylloxera vastatrix, had been imported from America and was gradually creeping through the roots of vines across the country.  All of this was happening at a time when Champagne was gradually being recognised as the go-to drink for any form of celebration.  Add into the mix, the need to completely replace the root stock of infected French grapes in order to continue to produce wine, the irony that the new root stock had to come from the other side of the Atlantic at a cost and because it was bug resistant, and you have a powder keg about to explode – or is that a very large champagne cork about to be popped!!!

Whatever the case, eastern France was in revolt.  In the midst of all this, the harvests of 1909 and 1910 were afflicted by mould and mildew, then by hailstones and flooding, and the Champagne areas were re-designated, thereby completely cutting out many of the small growers who wanted to take advantage of the steadily growing interest in their sparkling wine. It was no wonder the usually quiet and studious tenders of vines took to the streets so violently.  According to newspapers at the time, millions of bottles of champagne were emptied into the river or the streets.

Today, as I stroll through these streets, there’s no hint of the unrest.  The shops specialising in wine are trading happily alongside each other.  The cafes are full of locals and tourists taking in the view of the historic centre, and life moves at the relentless pace of the clock.  But as I look at the pavement below my feet, I can’t help but imagine the river of champagne that once traversed its surface…

If you enjoyed this post, you might also like to read about my travels through Meyrueis

or the city of Vernon

Meyrueis and the Jacques Forêt Mysteries ...

... I'm not running with my planned post today because there is something much more important to say.  Read on ...

My first Publisher, Crooked Cat, who later became Darkstroke, looked after me and my books from day one with the publication of Messandrierre in 2015.  Since then, there have been five other books all published by Crooked Cat and subsequently Darkstroke.  There have been short stories, too, in the Dark World series of anthologies. As an introduction to the world of publishing, Crooked Cat always made sure that I was equipped to handle whatever was thrown at me.  I was supported through workshops and discussions, and could always seek help from fellow authors within the publishing house.  It's a great privilege to say that those relationships still exist, and it's comforting to know that those other authors are just a message away on social media.  However, good things sometimes come to an end.  Last year, Crooked Cat decided to close their business down.

I quickly found a new publisher, Northodox Press, and signed a new contract in January.  My previously published books were submitted to be prepared for re-publication, and Meyrueis, book seven in the series, was completed and submitted.  But things have changed at Northodox Press, too.  Yesterday, Northodox formally announced their change of direction in publishing, all of which means that my cosy crime books are no longer a good fit for their future publishing requirements.

Having spent 20 years working in business, I know how important it is not to become emotional about a company's changes in direction. We all have to adapt and adjust to changing market forces.   And that is what I have been doing.  Meyrueis will be a little delayed in making its appearance.  I had hoped that it would be available on Amazon by now.  But, look out for it in the New Year.  I also hope to have some news on the re-release of my first four books, so watch out for another post here on the blog in the coming weeks.

 

Rivers of France ...

La Loire at Saumur

... I’m picking up from where I left you in Amboise on my last blog post. Read on…

Leaving Amboise, we stick with the north bank of the river and the D952.  This route once passed through the heart of the city of Tours – a place I have visited many times, and if you want to catch up with those visits, you can read them Here and  Here.  Today, there is a ring road that takes you on a circuitous route around the north of the city.  But the old road is still there, and if you follow the signs for the Abbaye de la Lanterne Marmoutier, you can thread your way along the road that runs beside the river.  The old abbey is also worth a visit.

From Tours, the D952 continues its route along the riverbank through to Saumur – there’s a fascinating Tank Museum here that will take a whole day out of your trip, but it’s worth it.  From Saumur, the same road follows the river all the way to the southern side of the vast city of Angers.  From Pont de Dumnacus you see the full scape of La Loire.  It’s wide, with long, sloping silt shelves on either side and long, low bridges crossing it.  Not exactly noteworthy photo shots.  Just to the west of Angers, the Loire subsumes the river Maine, and the faster-flowing water makes its way to the old town of Ancenis.

With a population of under 10,000, this small town has some interesting historical connections, and it will be our last stop on our journey along La Loire.  As with many ancient towns, there is a château here, but perhaps the term ‘castle’ is a more fitting description.

Built in the late tenth century by Aremburga, the widow of Guerech, Duke of Brittany, the original motte-and-bailey castle had simple defences: a moat, a palisade, and an enclosed interior to protect the inhabitants.  Because of its location by the river, it became a strategic point for observing the river, the traffic and an opportunity to make money from tolls!  Records exist from the early fourteen hundreds decreeing that the then owners of the castle must desist charging river traffic for transportation of cargo.

From the 12^th to the 16^th century, the fortress was attacked many times, not only by French Kings and Dukes but also by our own Henry 2 and King John.  From the 17th century, the military significance of the castle diminished, and in 1626, Cardinal Richelieu ordered that the castle be dismantled.  What we see today are the remains of the original building in a new setting, as the moat was filled and new wharves created.  In the mid-nineteenth century, with the establishment of an Ursuline boarding school, the site was further damaged and adapted for the needs of the nuns and the children they educated.

Now, the château sits a short walk away from the river it once overlooked.  But Quai de la Marine runs behind the castle grounds and along the bank of La Loire.  It’s only when you stand on the esplanade and look the length of the river that you see the vastness.  It’s hard to believe that this great river started life as a ‘particularly disappointing pool of brownish water’.

From here in Ancenis the river flows westward towards the city of Nantes, the naval port of St.Nazaire and the Atlantic Ocean where the waters of La Loire are finally dispersed.

This is the final post for my journey along La Loire.  If you would like to read the earlier posts, just click the links below:  

Rivers of France  La Loire  Digoin  Nevers  Orleans  Blois and Amboise

Please welcome, friend and author ...

... Jenna Maeson to the blog today.  So Jenna, tell me, what is your current release?

JM  Mischief in the Magic Shop - a cosy holiday mystery, also the fourth in the Tails of Trouble series.

AW  Hmm, that sounds interesting.  What first got you into writing and why?

JM  I read with my mom as a little kid and then fell in love with reading on my own.  I guess the love of books and an active imagination built it out.  I tell people I was writing books before I could write words because I would draw stacks of pictures and then dictate the story for my mom to write down.

AW  You write cosy mysteries.  Is it all imagination, or do you do research?

JM  Mostly imagination, but I do some research around various elements of the story if I’m not familiar with them.  I write a lot about animals, so I do a lot of research on what their behaviours are or what they can eat, things like that.  I don’t want to write an animal eating something they shouldn’t and getting a lot of angry comments about it.

AW   Have you tried/dabbled with other genres or writing for other forms of media?

JM  I’ve played in all genres for the most part.  My ideas are all over the place.  Earlier this year I did a Flash Fiction writing contest, an entire story in 1000 words or less.

AW  Famous authors such as Roald Dahl and Dylan Thomas had a special space for writing. Do you have a writing shed of your own?

JM  Sort of.  I have a big blue circle chair where I do a lot of writing, but sometimes it doesn’t have the back support I need to deal with sitting that long so I will move around to find what’s comfortable that day.

AW  And finally, what would your eight-year-old self think, and say about you and your achievements today?

JM  They would be super happy that I finally wrote and published my stories, although maybe a tad disappointed because I haven’t done a children’s book yet.

about the author… From a young age, Jenna has always found joy in the art of storytelling, weaving worlds filled with adventure, mystery, and heart.  A lover of plants, animals, and all things nature, Jenna draws inspiration from all parts of the world around her.  Her passion is for creating engaging stories, they aim to offer readers a delightful escape from the everyday, filling each page with fun, suspense, and unforgettable characters.

about the book… A disappearing act was supposed to be the grand finale—until the magician didn’t come back.

Emerald Ridge is all aglow for the holidays—twinkling lights in the square, steaming mugs of cocoa, and a brand-new attraction set to dazzle locals and tourists alike: The Vanishing Parlour, a magician-themed escape room promising wonder and intrigue.

But the magic turns deadly when its owner, up-and-coming magician Sam Dini, is found dead after a rehearsal. The police call it an accident. Olivia Morgan isn’t so sure.

Olivia already has her hands full with Mischief, the magician’s kleptomaniac ferret, Elmer the opinionated golden retriever mix, and holiday baking for the local shelter fundraiser. But when a string of puzzling clues surfaces—a forged contract, missing playing cards, a sealed love letter, and even a hidden hallway within the Parlour—Olivia can’t ignore the nagging sense that Sam’s “final trick” was meant to be something else entirely.

As snow blankets the mountain town, Olivia untangles secrets that stretch from a mysterious collector to a grieving girlfriend, from whispered rivalries to dangerous obsessions. With Christmas around the corner, she’ll need her quick wit, her small-town allies, and her animal companions to uncover the truth before another performance ends in disaster.

You can get the book on Amazon

You can follow Jenna on Instagram  on her Website  and on her Author Page

 

 

I'm Off My Beaten Track in Ceuta ...

... a Spanish enclave in North Africa.  Yes, I know, how did that happen?  Well, I've found some little nuggets of info in my journal of Spanish Scribblings.  Read on ...

Modern Ceuta has a population of around 84,000 inhabitants.  It has a geographical area of 18.5 square kilometres, roughly 7.1 square miles.  Not exactly large, but the territory sits at a strategic 'choke-point', to use military terminology.  Ceuta is bordered by the Mediterranean Sea on the north and east, the Atlantic Ocean and Morocco on the northwest and south.  Looking at a map, the distance from Ceuta to Gibraltar is only 28 kilometres — about 17 miles across the sea.  Hence, the beady eyes of the Phoenicians, those pesky Romans, the ancient Arab Caliphates and the Berbers of old fell upon this tiny piece of territory.

Across the centuries, what we now call Ceuta changed hands many times, was destroyed and rebuilt.  In 1415, it was annexed by Portugal.  After 1580, Ceuta became part of the Hispanic Monarchy, in other words the Spanish monarchy.  In the 17th Century, it became a province of Cadiz and finally, in 1995, it became an autonomous settlement.  I'll let my journal take you through the city...

SPANISH SCRIBBLINGS

'There's a quietness about this place that is very welcoming after the noise and bustle of the last port.  The traffic even stops and remains stationary when you come to a zebra crossing.  The walk from the port area into town is very pleasant, with the marina skirted by a wide road lined with palm trees.  The sea breeze is quite chilly today.

'As I meander through the streets, the mix of architectural styles is eclectic.  Old Spanish and Portuguese colonial buildings stand next to modern apartment blocks.  The squares are pedestrianised with carefully tended planters in full flower despite the weather I'm used to at this time of year in England.  I turn another corner and I'm met with the strong angularity of the Marinid Walls built by Abu Sa'id Uthman 2 in 1328.  Another ancient building houses a typical Roman arch, and as I make my way out towards the road that runs along the seaboard, I encounter the navigable moats that surround Royal Walls and their battlements.  A careful look shows that some parts of the walls are as old as the first century, while other parts are much later, 17th- and 18th-century additions and replacements.  As I continue my uninterrupted stroll, I come across a monument to the artillery that protected the territory in the late 17th and early 18th centuries.  A fabulous piece of modern sculpture that captures the look and feel of battle from that time...'

'Before I leave, there are two things that I know I must capture.  The entrance to the port of Ceuta has a statue of Hercules on a promontory of the dock.  Here, Hercules is flanked by two pillars, which he is pulling inwards.  On a raised area in the town on the other side of the dock, a second statue shows Hercules in a pose where he is pushing the pillars apart.  This statue is surrounded by plants, trees, and fellow passengers.  All four of them, chatting away right in front of the statue.  I'm not the only visitor with a camera poised, ready to get that shot.  But the chatterers just keep on talking, oblivious to the growing number of camera addicts like me!  Another lady joins me, and we start a conversation of our own as we patiently wait for the chatterers to move.  Ten minutes later, my new friend decides to give up.  Stoic that I am, I move a little further forward and make a great play of lining up my shot.  Then I move left and line up another shot, and then right for a third.  I dig around in my bag for my notebook and pen.

As I'm about to approach the chatterers, to ask them for their names so that I can state who they are when I sell the pic to a newspaper, they start to depart, waving as they tear themselves away from their conversation...'

I did get my shot - see left.  As I returned to the spot I'd decided would give me the best aspect, I was joined by another photographer with a seriously good Pentax and a tripod. 

'Well done,' he said. 'I'd already been waiting twenty minutes before you arrived.' I just smiled.

The second place I wanted to see was the avenue lined with statues and monuments dedicated to the great and good from across the centuries.  Yes, I did get some shots, but my time was limited, and the sun was not in the right aspect.  I guess that's an excuse to go back and spend more time there.

If you want to read more of my exploits outside of France, then check out the following links : Cadiz  Casablanca  and  Cairo

I'm reviewing F is for France ...

... by Piu Eatwell.  This is a book that I've had on my shelves for quite a while, and I thought it was about time it moved onto my blog!  Read on ...

According to the cover, this book is a 'curious cabinet of French wonders.'  When you look inside and begin reading the introduction, you will see that the book is further described as 'themed trivia'.  Sorry, but I have to disagree with that!  Yes, it is a book about France, the culture and the French.  So, I accept that the 'theme' bit is totally accurate.  But 'trivia'?  No, I can't let that pass.  

This little book is an examination of the many odd little things that I have observed and wondered about as I've been travelling the length and breadth of the country over many years.  So, it is useful that the book is set out in the same format as a dictionary, beginning at A, and working its way through to Z, at the end.  Once you reach the back of the book, there's a helpful set of notes and a bibliography if you want to read more on any one of the many subjects examined in the text.

I found the various trips into history, culture, food, drink and customs absolutely fascinating.  Beginning with 'A is for Absinthe' and also providing a recipe for the said lethal drink, I was immediately perturbed about the rest of the content.  But my fears quickly disappeared as I read about elephants being banned from the beach in Granville and feral kangaroos in a forest west of Paris.  Now I can personally testify about elephants on the Allier—I was there and I saw them!  You can read that post Here if you wish to check it out.

As you move through the alphabet, you come across fascinating little nuggets of information, such as the guillotine being named after an 18th-century opponent of capital punishment.  You must also make sure you check out the sections on cheese and coffee.  You will be surprised by the long-held myths that the author's research busts.  And as for the table on coffee drinking, France isn't where you'd expect it to be, and the UK doesn't even get a mention!

This book is a delightful expose of the many eccentricities that make France and the French what and who they are.  The anecdotes and conveyed with wit and intelligence, and I can honestly say that I could not put this book down once I had opened it.  I also found myself nodding enthusiastically at some sections as I recalled memories from my travels and the places I've visited.  A book not to be missed by anyone who has a genuine interest in the country and its people.

Rivers of France ...

… I’m finally picking up my journey along La Loire.  It seems such a long time since I’ve been able to continue this series of posts.  Hopefully you won’t be disappointed with today's destination …

From the city of Blois, in my last post, we meander along the D952 which runs along the north bank of the river.  We follow the valley to the city of Amboise.  The oldest part of the city is on the south bank of the Loire and that’s where I’m taking you today.

With a population of over 12,500 people, the city of Amboise has a significant and very long history.  It also has a beautiful château that originates from the 11^th century.  Changed, added to, and improved over time, it was eventually confiscated by the monarchy and then extensively rebuilt to suit royal tastes.  Our own Mary Stewart, Queen of Scots, arrived in Ambiose at the age of six in 1548 and remained in the château until 1561, when she returned to Edinburgh to claim her title to the English crown.  But we’ll ignore the stunning building that towers over the river for the moment.  There's somewhere else I want to you to see.

From the bridge that crosses the river right by the château it’s a short walk – five hundred metres - deeper into the old town to Le Clos Lucé.  This was once the residence of Leonardo de Vinci.  The artist was lured to France by Francis 1.  Despite his age, da Vinci travelled to France in 1516.  He was by then sixty-four years old.  The King promised da Vinci the house and the artist lived out the final years of his life in the luxurious surroundings of the manor house until he died in 1519.

Built by Hugues d’Amboise in 1471, the small palace – in comparison with the royal château – is still sumptuous by an artist’s standards.  Leonardo was also in good company as previous inhabitants were as noteworthy as King Charles 8.

Now, the building in its own grounds, is a museum dedicated to the life and work of Leonardo.  You can meander through the artist’s studio, his living quarters, his workshop for his war machines, and the kitchens were his staff toiled to keep the household fed and watered and Leonardo in the style to which the King had set out for him.

As I moved from room to room, from staircase to landing, and window to window I couldn’t help but think about the feet that the passed the same way five hundred years before me.  As I gazed out of the windows at the gardens and grounds below, I couldn’t stop asking myself if da Vinci might have taken inspiration from this or that particular view.

The most fascinating part of a visit to this establishment, are the rooms containing the models of da Vinci’s many war machines.  There is an early form of tank right here!  Not to mention an equally early version of a machine gun along with a wooden bicycle and lots more to discover.

I spent a whole day meandering through Le Clos Lucé.  Which I suppose means I’ll have to come back to take another look at the royal house!  But, as I make my way back to the King's residence I have to call in.  Not to visit the house but to visit da Vinci’s grave which sits in the grounds of the royal château.  Da Vinci died on May 2^nd, 1519.  There is a painting by Ingres that was completed in 1818, depicting the artist on his deathbed with Francis 1 at his side.  Did he really die in the arms of the King of France?  I genuinely don’t know the true answer to that question.  But, it does kind of seem fitting that he might have done!

If you would like to read the earlier posts in this series, you can find them by clicking the following links :  Rivers of France  La Loire  Digoin  Nevers  Orleans  Blois

Come and join me and ...

... Gianetta Murray, in the fabulous and historic Abbey inSelby on November 22nd.  More details below ...

Authors in the Abbey is the next event for your diary.  There will be numerous authors from in and around Yorkshire.  You can expect a plethora of genres to choose from, and if you wish, you will be able to take home signed copies, too.

The event runs from 10am to 4pm, and both Gianetta and I will be there all day.  

I will have all six of my Jacques Forêt Mysteries with me.  So, if you would like to chat about France, the Cévennes, the stories, or even Jacques himself, please drop by and say hello.  I will also be able to give you the latest info on the next book in the series.

I will be bringing the three fabulous Miss Moonshine anthologies as well.  If you are in need of a feel-good, heart-warming read for the cold winter nights, then these collections of gentle stories will see you through.  They are also ideal for those few moments when the kids are busy, and all you need is a cuppa and a bit of me-time.

Gianetta Murray, (author of A Supernatural Shindig, an anthology and  Moved to Murder, the first in her cosy crime series) will also be at the fair with her books.  I’m sure Gianetta will be only too pleased to chat about how the work on book 2 is shaping up.

In addition, we will have the multi-genre miscellanies of tales from the Seasonal Paths Collection. All four are now available in print and E-format.  We will also have Earth, the first in a new series of anthologies with the elements as a theme.

Once you've filled your bags with books for yourself or gathered stories to use as Christmas presents, please take a moment to appreciate the abbey itself.  

This magnificent building has stood in the heart of Selby since 1069.  The building began life as a monastery.  Over the centuries, it has weathered fires, dissolution, decay, rebuilding and changes in structure.  

The architecture is primarily Gothic and Romanesque and contains one of the finest examples of medieval stained glass in the whole country, which dates from 1340.  I'll keep my fingers crossed for the sun to be in the right aspect, as I want to get a photo of the Jesse Window when I'm there.

Please join me and Gianetta on November 22nd from 10.00 am at Selby Abbey, The Crescent, YO8 4PU.  It'll be great to see you there...