C.F. Dunn's Blog, page 10

Sparrows

The pond is full of sparrows. It’s difficult to see the little brown blurs from the photo I took through the window, but birds have been dropping from the long strands of honeysuckle all morning. They balance on the lily pads and hop across the surface of thick pond plants to splash and play like children in a paddling pool. Occasionally they take fright, and rise as one to hide among the branches of privet; but within a few short minutes, a flurry of wings and high-pitched chatter signals their arrival once again. 

In the meantime, swallows have been harvesting swarms of flying ants and tiny insects brought out by the recent warmth. Then they line the wires like notes on staves, preening and preparing for the long flight south. Autumn is not far off.

With very mixed feelings I can now reveal the cover of th...

With very mixed feelings I can now reveal the cover of the fifth and last book in The Secret Of The Journal series – Fearful Symmetry. I love the way the artwork has reflected the themes throughout the series, but this one – being the last – has a special poignancy. ‪#‎SecretOfTheJournal‬ ‪#‎FearfulSymmetry‬

Readers’ Favorite review: Realm Of Darkness

Sometimes a review such as this is the best way to start the week. It’s what keeps us writing. Thank you, Melinda Hills!

 

Completed on: 08/19/2016

Review Rating: 5 stars! 

Reviewed By Melinda Hills for Readers’ Favorite

Never before has the past been so important! In Realm of Darkness, the fourth volume in The Secret of the Journal series by C.F. Dunn, Emma and Matthew are forced to confront a very real threat. In spite of overcoming earlier obstacles to finally become man and wife, the very inquisitiveness that brought Emma to Matthew now has the potential to bring his secret to light and ruin the life they have just begun together. Emma has survived so much, but the path before her is not going to be easy. Hostility from some family members and the arrogance of her superior at the college may prove to be her undoing. On top of that, a part of her life with which she thought she had made peace makes a return with sinister consequences. Will Emma be strong enough to forgive herself, accept Matthew’s love unconditionally, and do what is necessary to keep the incredible secret he has been hiding for over 400 years?

Beautifully written with tremendous detail, emotion and intrigue, Realm of Darkness is a novel well worth reading. Even though this is the fourth volume in The Secret of the Journal series by C.F. Dunn, the brilliant introduction provides enough information about ‘The Story So Far’ so that you can get into the action with enough understanding to truly appreciate the intrigue. From the first page, you are drawn into the lives of these unique characters and, with the last page, you are glad that there is more to come. Wow! I really enjoyed this book and would like to go back and read the previous volumes.

And to sum it up:

Wow! I really enjoyed the book and would like to go back and read the previous volumes. Your ‘introduction’, though, is perfect for providing needed background so that this volume stands comfortably alone.

Autumn Song

 When my parents were in Greece many, many moons ago, they were told that on August 15th every year the season changed, bringing with it the first hint of autumn. So, every year we watch and wait and see. Sometimes we detect the first mournful song of the robin on the 14th August, sometimes the light feels a little…thinner on the 16th, but true to what my parents had been told, we have noted the change ever since.

This year, the first wistful signs were bang on cue, and on the 15th, the washing took a little longer to dry on the line, the air felt somehow changed, and the robin began to sing to a different tune.

John Donne: Death Be Not Proud

Sometimes people ask me where the titles of the books in The Secret Of The Journal series come from, and why I’ve chosen them. A few, like this one, are well known, but some are a bit obscure.

I studied metaphysical poetry at college and it was fundamental in helping me find – and define – my faith. How could something written over four-hundred years ago still be as potent today as when it was written? Perhaps it is because it speaks to the very heart of our humanity, to those things on which we dwell: love, fear, hope, faith, death – the nature of which never truly change, even if the words in which we express them have. This poem – by one of the most influential and insightful men of his time – remains a favourite.

Death Be Not Proud

John Donne

Death be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe,

For, those, whom thou think’st, thou dost overthrow,

Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee.

From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,

Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,

And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,

Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.

Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,

And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,

And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,

And better then thy stroake; why swell’st thou then?

One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,

And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

Lavender

Last winter didn’t do my little lavender hedge any great favours. The soggy conditions left the plants looking thin and bedraggled. They’ve rallied enough to produce a sparse flowering and this morning I harvested a modest bunch to scent our linen.

I like cutting lavender. When I planted the hedge some years ago there were a few winter casualties which I replaced the following spring. I couldn’t remember whether the original hedge was made up of Lavandula Angustifolia Hidcote or Munstead. As a result I have a mismatched hedge which flowers at different times. For all of that, the flowers of both types have a potent scent, and the dried stems – bunched and tied – make the best firelighters I know. 

Another benefit of the longer flowering season is to provide a food source for the bees that float among the swaying stems from the moment the sun rises above the privet hedge. I talk to the bees as I cut the flower heads, making sure I leave the majority for my small friends. Their need is greater than mine.

When I come to prune out the dead wood and trim the living, I’ll take cuttings and thrust them into the gritty soil they love. By next year, these cuttings will have bushed out into grey-green plants and will be added to the hedge or used to fill in bald spots. And then – when they flower – the bees and I will pass the time early on a summer’s morning, when the oils are still fresh and pungent and the sun not yet hot.

 

History On The Rocks

St Catherine’s Tor

Before I scuttle off back to the C15th (where things are hotting up), here are a number of photos I took yesterday of one of my favourite places in the world. The steep-sided hill is all that remains of St Catherine’s Tor, where a small chapel is thought to have once stood before the sea claimed it.

August storm, 2010

Probably linked to nearby Hartland Abbey, the chapel might also have been used to warn sailors of the proximity of the hull-ripping rocks along this part of the North Devon coast, where many ships have foundered. Utterly terrifying beauty.

St Catherine’s Tor

In the valley bellow St Catherine’s Tor (‘tor’ is a word commonly used in the South-West of England to mean a rocky hill or peak) is a twenty-foot thick wall crossing from side to side. The area is dry now, but was once  a marshy area fed by the Speke river or its tributary, and dammed to make a swannery.

The whole area around Hartland has an ‘other world’ feel to it. It might look abandoned and desolate now, but its sense of history still lingers in the remains of the swannery and the tumbled stones of the old harbour.

Interview: Stamford Lives

If you’ve read any of The Secret of the Journal series, you might have guessed that Stamford – that quintessentially English stone town at the edge of south Lincolnshire – plays an important role in Emma’ D’Eresby’s life. If you’ve ever wondered why I chose Stamford as her home town, journalist, Jonathan Sandall reveals my links in a recent article in the Rutland and Stamford Mercury.

http://www.stamfordmercury.co.uk/what...

 

 

 

 

Tracing the Past

Chatting to family last weekend, we began to discuss the importance of ancestry – or the knowledge of our ancestry – and whether it matters that we know our history or not. For some, it’s irrelevant – the past is the past. For others it represents the root of everything we are now. Does it matter, I wonder? ‪#‎tracingthepast‬

Spoils of War

  I’ve been cogitating about the Somme and the First World War recently. My great-uncle (of whom I was thinking when I described Emma’s Grandpa, btw), served in the trenches and was blown up during the Somme campaign. On regaining consciousness, he apparently woke speaking three ancient languages.

Suffering from mustard gas, severe multiple injuries and with shrapnel lodged near his spine, he somehow survived to be shipped back to England to make the best of his recovery.

Probably a victim of PTSD, he became under-pig man to a farmer and gradually recovered, although the shrapnel and nerve damage on one side never left him. While working at the farm he met his future wife and life-long love.

As a result of his war experiences, my great-uncle decided to train for the church. By the time I knew him, he had also become a skilled amateur archaeologist, antiquarian, and linguist, with such a deep understanding of history and human frailty that I might have been in awe of him. But his humanity, wisdom and truly mischievous sense of humour, bridged any gulf age and learning might have caused, and he honoured me – a child – with as much respect as he did his peers.

He only ever once spoke to me about the war. The family were sitting around the dining room table eating ice cream, when he began to regale us with tales of trench-foot and rats. As my spoon began to falter and my appetite wane, he leaned forward and, with a wicked grin, whipped my bowl from in front of me and declared them spoils of war.

Somewhere among my great-aunt’s papers are the memoirs of her husband’s war, which she recorded as part of his slow recovery. In them, are his memories of the horrific scenes he witnessed before arriving at the Somme, things whispered about by the family, but never discussed.

Some day, I’ll take courage in both hands and read those diaries, but I doubt I will find in them any mention of innocence and ice-cream.