Sue Moorcroft
A book about a midlife crisis and teenagers but the book had me at helicopter pilot!
I have been waiting for weeks to meet Leah. As soon as the book arrived, I made myself some strong coffee and lost myself in France.
As I opened the book, I could feel the ‘sheen on my skin where the sunshine streamed in through the window’. But the book isn’t just about the shimmering heat, a fast heart beat and copious amounts of rosé pamplemousse. It is a wonderfully witty book that isn’t ‘Just for the Holidays’ because the consequences of the holiday will last forever. This novel examines the fragility of the ‘protective shell’ surrounding teenagers that can shatter without their parents. In turn, Moorcroft also shows how adult are left vulnerable and exposed when relationships breakdown. However, you will still laugh all the way through novel and forget that you need to go to sleep – hence strong coffee needed. You will also crave some expensive chocolate.
Prior to reading this novel, I was unaware of the challenges facing Leah as I had focused on the trail of clues in the #PostcardsJFTH. One must admire Leah as she ‘rolls up her sleeves’, supports everyone and hopes that the ‘frost’ will thaw between her sister and brother-in-law. Leah’s ‘heart twists’ for the teenagers but also flutters when she feels the heat from a certain man. It is moving that Leah has an incredible capacity to empathise, putting the needs of others first. It is equally endearing that she removes the halo from time to time. Who wouldn’t want Leah, with her ‘sunny personality’ and compassion, as a sister?
The narrative is as fast paced as Leah’s Porsche, but one longs to find out if the romance will become a harmonious melody rather than a sporadic drum beat. Besides the events rolling on, there is a tremendous lyrical quality to the dialogue that drives you through the events. The humour sparkles throughout the interactions and difficult situations. I am in awe of the way in which Moorcroft combines humour with a more challenging and sensitive subject. Characters are built with precision as each word is selected with tender loving care: Moorcroft cares about her characters thus ensuring that the reader will also suffer from a ‘sore heart’ at times.
Read it and you will understand why Leah needs to get a massive ‘Do not disturb’ sign on her door.
A whole constellation of stars to be awarded to Sue Moorcroft for this funny, poignant yet heart-breaking read! Must go now and bake the quick pecan toffee pudding to console myself for having finished the book.
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’ and ‘
’. Currently, she is working on the frolics and escapes of ‘Mavis and Dot’- need I say more?
Angela: My father, Kenneth Sutor, who died twenty six years ago. He introduced his three young children to Italian culture in the 1960’s, when he relocated to Rome to work for the Commonwealth War Graves Commission. I still have his 1956 edition of Hachette’s World Guide to Italy that he carried in his pocket for our excursions. Every Sunday he would take us to Mass and afterwards treat the family to a slap-up meal in a simple trattoria. Then, out would come his little blue book and we would be guided round the Villa d’Este or the Via Appia Antica, Colosseum, Subiaco, Assisi…He refused to have us penned up in an apartment in the centre of Rome and found us a ramshackle villa on the outskirts of Rome. The garden was stuffed with Roman statues, orange trees and bordered by vineyards and peach groves. How could I, as an impressionable seven year old, fail to fall in love with Italy? He was self-educated. Today he would have enjoyed a university education but his family were not wealthy enough to support him. I remember him often engrossed in a history book, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose.
Fifteen miles from nowhere, we saw a faded sign for ‘Fish Shack’. We followed a road to the middle of the beach desert until we reached a decaying old boat that was almost as big as a whale. Yes, and the 
Expecting greasy fish and chips, I was handed plaice and salad with a large cup of builder’s tea. The food was absolutely delicious! The plaice, caught only hours earlier, was cooked in olive oil on a hot plate. The fresh salad had an olive oil and lemon dressing. It was served in a small cardboard box, but they will probably steal this idea on the Great British Menu. And builder’s tea could be the new Pinot Noir. I must confess that I declined the bread roll, but understood that it was a nod to the fishermen who eat this food.
Seizing the moment, we decided to go for a walk on the beach. We were told it was fine to walk on the beach if we didn’t touch the ‘fishing tackle’!! Forget visiting a maritime museum, there were artefacts on the beach such as rusty anchors and abandoned nets. These savvy people are obviously protecting the objects d’art to prevent art galleries and Michelin starred restaurants from displaying them in their gaffs. The food and the setting were perfect: The Fish Shack is indeed a funky little shack. Get yourselves off to the food getaway!
Who knows? Maybe this place will become either the Dungeness Modern Art Gallery or even the Derek Jarman Modern. An art gallery and restaurant without walls could be the new concept of the 21st century. Visit now as in the future you may need a credit card without a limit.
Tuscan Roots
I stopped at the mill ‘hidden in the folds of the Alps of the Moon, where the sun sets from the jewel red skies behind misted blue peaks.’ Anna’s mother once lived in a mill, and she explains ‘…the old building in ruins, crumbling into nothing seems to mirror what I am leaning of Mamma’s past.’ The Mill is ‘fragile’ and is a symbol of lost history and lost dreams that could be rekindled by the new generation. Sitting on the steps to read the letters and diaries, I sensed the ‘breeze that dances on the river’. Listening to the ‘sound of the river and distant sheep bells’, I could feel the loneliness of Ines. I am sure I heard the voices of the German soldiers who would have bathed there, and the whispers of the POWs and partisans hidden in the mountains.
I was completely spellbound by the characters and the clever structure of this novel. ‘
This novel evokes the senses and leaves the reader firmly fixed in Tuscany. Not the tourist’s Italy, but rural, down to earth Italy – ‘this landscape feels lived in’, and the author breathes life into ‘the ghosts from the past’. The story of the POW and partisans provide another dimension to this story, and I was impressed with how this was skilfully woven into the story.
I found myself laughing so much that my husband wanted to understand what was so funny, but I couldn’t articulate it without reading sections aloud. Indeed, I can echo the author’s words that ‘I have been crying with laughter and sniggering – Himself was not amused’.
You cannot ‘loiter politely’ or ‘cough Englishly’ in France; it’s not even sufficient to speak French. The narrative shows you that ‘if you want to integrate, you have to do it at the locals’ pace.’ You will learn subtleties of why the French mock the English and why we laugh at the French. Mais oui, we have so much in common as we like to eat drink and laugh. It’s not that simple! It was pure genius to invite the locals for an English breakfast and afternoon tea; fight traditions with more traditions and vive la difference. One must accept that the British will never know what time bonjour becomes bonsoir. One must rejoice in the fact that ‘in France, you spend a lot of time eating’.
Patricia’s witty observations will instruct you in French way of life. However, it is refreshing to view British culture through French eyes and laugh at our own idiosyncrasies. Despite the culture gap, Herself and Himself charmed the locals. In turn, you will also be charmed by: Henri, Loony Tunes, P’tit Gui and a comedy of wonderful people. However, the most endearing characters in the book are Patricia, Himself and, Purdey, the dog. Wouldn’t it be great fun to invite Patricia and Himself to a dinner party? I dare you to ask Patricia if Henri almost made her blush. Perhaps, Himself would agree to partake in a spot of demolition after coffee.
In November, I received some mail from Nunspeet, Holland. Imogen Matthews posted an article to 
Across the path was a sign to Het Verscholen Dorp, Dutch for hidden village. It wasn’t easy to see what was there, which was probably the point. We followed a rough path through the trees and ahead of us was a hut of some sort, only partly visible. The roof was covered with moss, vegetation and branches to look like the ground beside it. It was a reconstruction of an underground hut that had stood on this spot.
Today, the woods are a haven for people looking to escape busy lives in towns and cities. The Veluwe is a popular holiday destination, but deep in the woods it’s always tranquil. I imagine how quiet it must have been 74 years ago, although for many the peace was tempered by an undercurrent of threat and fear.
Patricia: Do you know that feeling you get when looking back on your children’s toddler years or on your pet’s time as a puppy? Children are big now; they have their own lives and dreams and don’t seem to need you all that much. Surely not to hold your hand or seek your body for comfort. Your dog might even take over your favourite chair at times, forcing you to seek comfort elsewhere as you have a sudden flashback of this clumsy puppy fitting perfectly in your lap, while still leaving space for a book and a coffee mug
Time for Honesty
Earlier in the day, we had strolled past the white Norwegian church in Cardiff Bay, and this reminded me of ‘
It was a pleasure to get to know Emmelin. She would be a loyal friend who needs a little support, and the occasional nudge in the right direction. Fortunately, her friends are always on hand with delicious vanilla custard bakes, custard doughnuts, cakes and cookies. Despite the troubled childhood in Solvik, it provides Emmelin with a haven from reality. Solvik is the ideal cosy retreat conjured while gazing into the flames of a cosy fire. Café Soleside would be my go to destination if I needed a culinary treat to soothe the senses. I would order smoked salmon and scrambled eggs baked with cream cheese and salad. Although the food is Norwegian, there is a familiarity with my own culture, and I loved this. It is also reassuring to be presented with a couple of villains who one hopes will also get their just desserts!
And there are some bitter twists in the novel to evoke your compassion for Emmelin. The narrative gains pace as it heads towards Christmas. I hoped there would be a comforting ending to compliment the ‘vanilla custard bakes with sugar glaze and coconut flakes.’ Or perhaps the bitterness of misunderstandings would be soaked up with the ‘creamy fish soup with seafood and newly baked rolls.’
I found a cosy setting for the Norwegian church as, ‘the ocean had frozen as I {she} gazed out at the white, untouched landscape. Little could compare with fallen snow.’ What a treat to find a charming Christmas tucked away in the corner of a sweet novel. If only, I could have skied over the Welsh mountains to meet Magda, Oliver, Emmelin and her first love. Instead, I decided to try some of the recipes at the end of the novel. Time to plan my New Year’s Eve menu, and Time to look forward to the year ahead.
Mette Barfelt is a Scandinavian author. After 16 years working for travel agents and airlines, she got a degree in Marketing, before she started writing books. Naturally, with her background in the travel industry, she has travelled extensively throughout the world and visited numerous countries. Her passion for travels and cruises has resulted in the non-fiction book “Alt du bør vite om cruise”, published by Aschehoug Publishing House in Norway.
Initially, I complained that it was another rainy day in Wales and it wasn’t worth braving a potential storm. I was happy to admire the colours of the garden from my writing room, but the writing wasn’t flowing. Finally, I put on my walking gear and went to the Brecon Beacons. The beep, beep, beep of my phone was left behind as we drove into the heart of the impressive mountain range.
Always one to admire the cloudless blue sky, I was surprised by depth of the grey sky. I had been adamant that I needed the blue sky for some ‘blue sky thinking’, but I was wrong. I needed the reality of a dramatic landscape to chase away the writer’s block.
We stood in the landscape as the colours were dissolved by silver, grey and bronze tones. We discussed how the scene was changing before us, and how the moving clouds were like the curtains opening and closing on the stage. This made me aware that the weather re-writes the landscape in the same way that a writer changes the shades of meaning in a story.
The Little Theatre by the Sea 
Beneath the beguiling canvas of Deriu there are shadows lurking. Faye feels ‘a dark underbelly to this place’. Ley’s story explores the shadows and searches beneath the surface of the paradise. The Little Theatre is a symbol of: the town’s history, culture, the secrets and the way that the heart can wither if unloved.
The insight into Faye’s parents helps the reader to understand Faye. There is a clever juxtaposition of what seems to be the end of a relationship compared with a potential new relationship. Faye’s parents, Ade and Molly, both embark on an emotional journey. These characters provide some poignant reflections on love and marriage. Ade, who has been looking for adventure, realises ‘…it was the minutiae of life that kept couples together’. Ley’s exploration of the way a marriage can veer out of control is thought-provoking. Molly’s epiphany is beautifully washed away in a memorable scene. Rosanna Ley examines how honesty is key in any relationship be it an established relationship or a new one.
We agreed that the spirit of the woman seems to beckon you. From a distance, the sculpture looks like a projected image – prompting: is she real or imaginary? As you approach, the sculpture is flat like the silhouette on a stamp.
I decided this was also a sculpture but others were sceptical. A plaque marked the spot as if to reassure me.
I wonder if you would be able to spot the sculptures that instigated our discussions?
