What I Did On My Summer Vacation

I know, it’s been a long while and I have lots to tell you…

There was a once in lifetime trip – involving this lovely ship

And beautiful fjords, in sometimes dicey weather

Full admission, I stole that photo from the internet and I am not up to going through all our photos right now….

Why, you may ask?

Two days after arriving home I came down with COVID – I successfully dodged it up until now…getting all and every vaccination and booster.

Then, this morning Husband came down with it too. We are very rarely sick at the same time, always one to take care of the other – not this time.

We are a pitiful sight – endless cups of tea, sounds of coughing from separate bedrooms, protecting our separate dishes, tissue boxes everywhere, and all the over the counter cough and pain relievers we could find from our medicine chest. However, as one dear friend pointed out, it’s good thing we didn’t come down with this while traveling ~~ always a silver living.

On the way home from picking up our Paxlovid* – we stopped at our favorite neighborhood restaurant and got enough varied Chinese dishes to last us three or four days. Why is it when you’re sick, Chinese seems the only cure?

Sorry to say, there will be an recovery interval before I am back to myself and eager to tell you all about everything. It was indeed a trip of a lifetime, and yes, there were books which I read on the trip and now during this illness.

But for right now, my only trip is to repair to my chambers with more tea, a book – and yet another nap.

In case you haven’t ascertained – I am a lousy sick person.

*while effective, turns out to be a wretched drug – giving a variety of unwelcome side effects and a constant horrid taste in your mouth.

The Seasonal Quartet by Ali Smith

My wonderful sister sent me these books, one by one over the span of a couple of years. They are lovely to look at and my OCD side loved seeing them lined up on my shelf as the spines are as pretty as the covers.

And so they sat, and sat. I often dipped into Ms. Smith’s first one in the quartet – Autumn- but I never got too far. So this past month I decided to delve deep and get going on this very well-received, Booker-prize winning series.

I guess I’ll start with the story line — Daniel Gluck is 103 years old sleeping deeply in a hospital bed. At his side is Elisabeth Demand, a 32-year-old art lecturer. They became friends when Elisabeth was a girl, with Daniel acting as a father figure and a teacher. As she reads to him in his hospital room, she remembers the conversations they had back then, how he cultivated her interest in art and taught her so many other things. And as Daniel slumbers, we observe his dreams: surreal recollections of his career and unrequited love.

We also follow Elizabeth’s life outside of the hospital visits and this gives Ms. Smith the chance to commentate on the state of the post-Brexit Britain. From the idiotic bureaucracy at the post office, to the ominous electric fence erected in the middle of town, it is an unhappy portrait. Not unlike what we continue to go through here in the U.S.

I’m tired of the news. I’m tired of the way it makes things spectacular that aren’t, and deals so simplistically with what’s truly appalling. I’m tired of the vitriol. I’m tired of anger. I’m tired of the meanness. I’m tired of selfishness. I’m tired of how we’re doing nothing to stop it. I’m tired of how we’re encouraging it. I’m tired of the violence that’s on it’s way, that’s coming, that hasn’t happened yet. I’m tired of liars. I’m tired of sanctified liars. I’m tired of how those liars have let this happen. I’m tired of having to wonder whether they did it out of stupidity or did it on purpose. I’m tired of lying governments. I’m tired of people not caring whether they’re being lied to anymore. I’m tired of being made to feel this fearful. I’m tired of pusillanimosity.

I don’t think that’s actually a word, Elisabeth says.

I’m tired of not knowing the right words, her mother says.

At this point I have to tell you that, although Autumn is a short novel, I still skipped around a lot — but at times the writing was beautiful and heart-wrenching – I especially like this passage about reading.

The words had acted like a charm. They’d released it all, in seconds. They’d made everything happening stand just far enough away.
It was nothing less than magic. Who needs a passport?
Who am I? Where am I? What am I?

I’m reading.

But then there were pages and passages that frustrated this reader with their stream of consciousness:

Where do I start? I’m the butterfly antenna. I’m the chemicals that paint’s made of. I’m the person dead at the water’s edge. I’m the water. I’m the edge. I’m the skin cells. I’m the smell of disinfectant. I’m that thing they rub against your mouth to moisten it, can you feel it? I’m soft. I’m hard. I’m glass. I’m sand. I’m a yellow plastic bottle. I’m all the plastics in the seas and in the guts of all the fishes. I’m the fishes. I’m the seas. I’m molluscs in the seas. I’m the flattened-out old beer can. I’m the shopping trolley in the canal. I’m the note on the stave, the bird on the line. I’m the stave. I’m the line. I’m spiders. I’m seeds. I’m water. I’m heart. I’m the cotton of the sheet. ….. I’m pollution. I’m a fall of horseshit on a country road a hundred years ago. … I’m the fly …..I haven’t even started telling you what I am. I’m everything that makes everything. I’m everything that unmakes everything. …. I’m the voice that tells no story.

And at times it is cringe-worthily over written

(sort of like that sentence, sorry):

He’s nothing but a torn leaf scrap on the surface of a running brook, green veins and leaf-stuff, water and current, Daniel Gluck taking leaf of his senses at last, his tongue a broad green leaf, leaves growing through the sockets of his eyes, leaves thrustling (very good word for it) out of his ears, leaves tenderizing down through the caves of his nostrils and out and round til he’s swathed in foliage, leafskin, relief

I flipped pages back and forth trying to get a bead on where this novel was going, all the while remembering this review from the Atlantic ~~

“Autumn is a gorgeously constructed puzzle that challenges the reader to solve it, with a narrative that darts back and forth in time and space. . . . As the novel proceeds, she layers together fragments of books and paintings and song lyrics in an act of literary decoupage, as if to mimic the fragile patchwork of national identity”.

I guess I’m not up to the challenge, because while I did finish Autumn, I’m not sure what I read — yes there was a story of a dying man as he looks back on his life, but just as I was getting into the rhythm of that — sudden rants about Brexit, disconnected thoughts that continue page after page, and then there are endless lists that only someone made sense.

The relationship between Daniel and Elisabeth kept me reading the story. I did chuckle and enjoy the efforts behind getting a passport renewed, but I didn’t understand the tree thing (if you’ve read Autumn, and do understand the tree analogies please explain.)

In summary, Ms. Smith has given us interesting characters, with some compelling vignettes, but all leading to nowhere clear. Autumn is greatly admired and won the Booker Prize — but this reader is obtuse and unable to figure it out.

The series will stay on my shelves as they are so nice — and maybe to impress– but mostly to perhaps later try the next one — Winter.

If you want to try this series, fair warning — it is very much suited to a British audience with expressions, subtleties and personalities that are singularly British.

What’s next? I’ll be taking a short break, more on why later.

Suffice it to say — it involves some packing…

The Flavia de Luce Series

A good friend and book barmy follower asked if I had read any in this series by author Alan Bradley. It took me a minute, but I remembered that, yes I have. I’ve read the first four, but somehow forgot all about them.

This is not a reflection on the books, which I thoroughly enjoyed, just a reflection on my age and sometimes poor memory. I also realized I never wrote about them here.

Let me tell you a bit about the heroine – Flavia de Luce is an eleven year-old girl, mature beyond her years, with an interest in all things chemistry-related, but with a special passion for poisons.

Let’s join Flavia as she mounts her trusty bicycle, Gladys, to solve a murder in the first in the series The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie.

It is the summer of 1950, and at the once-grand estate of Buckshaw, situated in the English countryside, Flavia is drawn into a series of inexplicable events: A dead bird is found on the doorstep, a postage stamp bizarrely pinned to its beak. Then, several hours later, she finds a man lying in the cucumber patch, as he takes his dying breath.

While she is both appalled and delighted, life begins in earnest when this murder comes to Buckshaw. When her widowed father is suspected and arrested for the crime, Flavia is soon trying to untangle the knots surrounding the stranger, a rare stamp, her father’s old schoolmaster, and the dead man in the garden.

I wish I could say I was afraid, but I wasn’t. Quite the contrary. This was by far the most interesting thing that had ever happened to me in my entire life.

She has many allies in her adventures with a variety of unlikely helpers and protectors. Flavia has to deal with her annoying older sisters, the dotty old housekeeper, her largely detached father and the intriguing and obviously inferior police inspector Hewitt. My favorite character (aside from Flavia) was the gardener and handyman, Dogger, who suffers from post traumatic stress syndrome and just wants to live a quite life but he has a special connection to the youngest De Luce.

The book (and the series that I’ve read) is filled witty intelligent writing.

It is not unknown for fathers with a brace of daughters to reel off their names in order of birth when summoning the youngest, and I had long ago become accustomed to being called ‘Ophelia Daphne Flavia, damn it.

Flavia is funny, and as I said earlier, quite mature for her age.

If there is a thing I truly despise, it is being addressed as ‘dearie.’ When I write my magnum opus, A Treatise Upon All Poisons, and come to Cyanide, I am going to put under “Uses” the phrase “Particularly efficacious in the cure of those who call one ‘Dearie.’

Flavia is also fearless and unflappable Turns out she is is a natural sleuth and is soon bothering everyone in the village to gain insight into the murder and clear her father’s name.

People love to talk–especially when the talking involves answering the questions of others–because it makes them feel wanted. […] I had long ago discovered that the best way to obtain answers about anything was to walk up to the closest person and ask.

The series can be labeled as cozy as there is minimal blood and gore, but there’s lots of action, red herrings and intriguing twists. The characters are so well-written that if you’re like me, you may begin to think of them as real people. I found it refreshing to see that our heroine was thrown off direction as readily as the reader. And this is the bonus – what makes this series stand out — the reader is seeing the world through an eleven year-old’s eyes which makes the story lines come alive.

I love Flavia; her intelligence mixed with mischief, her pluckiness and resourcefulness, her composure when encountering the morbid, and ultimately, how she accomplishes remarkable things while whiling away the long, solitary hours at the crumbling estate.

Mr. Bradley has beautifully captured the foibles of Flavia’s young age — her indignant need to be considered (at least) as capable as the adults around her, then in a different way, how small and lonely she feels when she wants to return to being a child, and doesn’t exactly know how to do it.

The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie won The Crime Writer’s Association Debut Dagger award and the Agatha Award for best first novel. And Marilyn Stasio, who reviews crime novels for The New York Times Book Review, included it as one of the best mysteries of the year.

The story goes, that after completing only fifteen pages of Sweetness, Mr. Bradley (within eight days) had secured book deals in three countries, not withstanding, this was his first attempt at writing a novel at 70 years of age.

So, Book Barmy followers, if you enjoy reading English countryside mysteries, without excessive violence, but are looking for something more than a typical comfort read – how about a most unusual detective, great writing, humor, and a unruly amount of knowledge about poisons — treat yourself to this wonderful series. I’m putting number five on my list.

N.B. In case you’re wondering about the titles, Mr. Bradley frequently borrows lines from canonical English poems which he often quotes before the title page

The Lost Art of Keeping Secrets by Eva Rice

The Lost Art of Keeping Secrets is not a book I’d ever heard of and even though it was published back in 2005, it got very little publicity over here. But when it was featured on Miranda’s book tube channel and compared to “I Capture the Castle” (which I read and enjoyed many years ago), I decided to seek it out. I was currently struggling and stuck in the middle of another book, so decided I needed something fresh – and this was just the ticket.

This effervescent historical novel is set in post WWII England during a time of change – the 1950’s. The focus is on young people who are coming into their own and are ready to toss away the memories of the war They’ve had enough of rationing, death and serious war news — they want to enjoy being young.

Penelope and Inigo Wallace live with their young, beautiful and widowed mother in a glorious, crumbling medieval English mansion. It is one of the last of the great houses and it is falling down around them as they have no money to keep it up.

The year is 1954 and, one day as Penelope is waiting for a bus in London, she is swept away by Charlotte, an high-spirited, confident young woman, wearing stylish clothes, and who needs someone to share a taxi. Charlotte brings Penelope home to meet her aunt Clare and cousin Harry, and Penelope is pulled into a more exiting and elegant world — one that she had only dreamed of from the bleakness of the manor.

Penelope is slightly awkward, very English but the two girls soon form a fast friendship…especially when they discover they both adore and are desperately in love with Johnnie Ray, an early rock and singer from America. Soon Penelope is a regular at Aunt Clare’s and relishes the atmosphere, cousin Harry, an amateur magician, but especially the tea —

Ah tea — there was something about the taste of hot buttered toast with gooseberry jam in Aunt Clare’s study that could never be replicated anywhere else.

Charlotte takes Penelope shopping for new clothes, and as a budding dressmaker crafts a wonderful dress for her as well. They go to dinners, parties and dances — they stay up all night, drink too much, fall in and out of love. But it’s often all too marvelous for Penelope to handle…

I thought of Mama, shattered and torn by the war and Papa’s death, and I wished with all my heart that she could understand how it felt to be us that night — how it felt to feel eighteen and unbeaten, eighteen and alive.

She is, at times, both uncomfortable but also delightfully attracted to this new way of life…

I realized that it was possible for the world to spin just for you, even if only for the length of time that it took to have dinner.

Ms. Rice, has a power with words. From the first page of the novel I felt the time and setting perfectly. She’s created vivid characters and some of the best snappy dialogue which made me giggle out loud.

I was completely taken away with this 1950s time-capsule feel, everything from the language used to emotions evoked took me right there. There are the gorgeous descriptions of the clothes, old crumbling houses, and the cluttered Georgian flat of Aunt Clare. But I especially loved the friendship of the two girls; it was sincere and supportive and it was fun and joy to read as the girls deal with their youth, romantic ideas and the very funny idolization of Johnnie Ray.

And don’t worry, The Lost Art of Keeping Secrets is wonderfully lacking in any sort of teenage melodrama or angst. And, yes there are secrets throughout — secrets kept and revealed but you’ll have to read the book to find out. The author wraps up the ending all very tidy, and somewhat expected, but I had such fun along the way that I didn’t mind that in the slightest.

Earlier I used the word effervescent and I will repeat it again as that’s exactly what this book is — it’s effervescent, charming and quirky, but is also a sweet, fun book and it made me laugh, but it also choked me up at times.

So this novel gets a huge thumbs up, but I can’t believe the book is ten years old, how come no one ever told me about this one before? Book Barmy readers, if you know of more books like this, please let me know, I need them in my life.

I think I’ll go re-read this in the meantime – it’s been much too long…

Bibliomysteries

When we were in New York City a few years ago, I was able to talk Husband into venturing into Tribeca, home of the famous (at least to me) Mysterious Bookshop. It’s a wonderful shop run by the infamous Otto Penzler and devoted entirely to mysteries.

Most tempting was this section of Bibliomysteries.

Found only at this bookshop, these small volumes are short mysteries stories themed or set in bookstores, libraries, or just involving books. I purchased up a few, I mean, how could I resist – really? They are perfect to put in pocket, stash in the glove compartment or tucked into a carry-on – just in case you get caught without something to read (gasp!).

During our last trip I experienced such an occasion and lucky for me, had this in my purse:

Seven Years by Peter Robinson

Retired professor, Donald Aitcheson, spends his time driving through the English countryside, exploring small villages and dipping into whatever used bookstores he can find. (A man after my own heart.)

It is one of the greatest pleasures of my retirement to set out early on a fine morning for some ancient town or city renowned for the quantity and quality of its second-hand bookshops.

On one such outing, he finds a collection of Robert Browning’s poetry with an inscription that uses lines from “Porphyria’s Lover” to threaten the book’s original recipient. Perhaps this note was only a joke made in poor taste; still, something about its tone captivates Aitcheson’s otherwise unoccupied mind, and leads him to a remote boarding school to investigate. But when what starts as a harmless game of detective comes too close to a deadly truth, Aitcheson finds himself face-to-face with a killer, and learns that some pages are best left unturned…

A short read, but extremely well-plotted and with an unexpected ending –there’s substance in this novella.

Peter Robinson is best known for his Inspector Banks series (of which I’ve read a few) and remember admiring his writing style, his characters come alive, and the settings in Yorkshire were wonderfully rendered.

I thoroughly enjoyed reading this short novel during my hour wait.

And, there’s so many more to choose from…

The Kind Worth Killing by Peter Swanson

Thrillers are not my go-to reading genre, but I do like them when traveling. The tedious airplane trips especially call for a good page-turner. My only thriller requirement is that it has to be well written with good reviews.

I chose the The Kind Worth Killing because the Washington Post said “it should be a contender for crime fiction’s best first novel of 2014.” It has also been compared to Gone Girl, a thriller which I really admired (the film, not so much). This is a modern re-imagining of Patricia Highsmith’s 1950 classic thriller, Strangers on a Train, but trust me, with many different and unique twists.

The flight from London to Boston is delayed and Lily, a young beautiful woman sits down next to Ted and as alcohol loosens his tongue, he tells her about his cheating wife. It turns out they are on the same flight and arrange to sit next to each other. By the end of the flight and more discussion, Lily says:

Truthfully, I don’t think murder is necessarily as bad as people make it out to be. Everyone dies. What difference does it make if a few bad apples get pushed along a little sooner than God intended? And your wife, for example, seems like the kind worth killing.

At first, it is very, very similar to “Strangers on a Train” but about a third of the way through The Kind Worth Killing takes some jaw-dropping twists and turns, and things get more and more complicated. (turns out murder is really hard, you guys.)

The novel uses alternating narratives of the main characters, and it switches between past and current timelines. Mr. Swanson does this masterfully, using the past narratives to provide details, previous connections and clues. At the same time, he manages to hold back enough specifics to keep you guessing on how everything is going to end.

The writing never feels gimmicky or contrived. Every time I thought I knew where it was going, more twists would happen but the writing kept it natural and soberly real. What I found most enjoyable, was when the layers were peeled back to reveal more information about each character, and new ones were introduced.

It’s a game of cat and mouse…but just who is the cat and who is the mouse? My head was spinning – who is the killer? Who is the victim? Is there anyone you can trust?

I was shocked at the ending, and read it twice. I did not see it coming and the story ends a far cry from what I expected…hmmmm.

And I think I will stop here, and not reveal anything further so I don’t spoil it for you. Because if you like thrillers, or need a good vacation read – you must read A Kind Worth Killing.

And because I will never learn…

There is a second in this series, which I hope picks up where this left off.

And another to add to my list — Mr. Swanson also wrote The Girl with a Clock for a Heart—which the Washington Post raves, “should be a contender for crime fiction’s best first novel of 2014.”

Yes, two more books to add to my pile – it’s a sickness I tell you, but I don’t need or want help…Okay?

A French dream come true

Our dear friends’ dream has come true. For 25+ years these friends have dreamed of moving to France and when they recently became empty-nesters, it was time to start seriously figuring it all out. They’ve spent many hours looking at hundreds and hundreds of homes on-line, and finally landed on (and bought) an old stone house in the countryside of France. The house needs some serious renovations, but it’s all theirs and with a combination of trepidation and giddy excitement, they gave notice to their landlord, quit jobs, and are packing up.

They won’t get a car, trains will take them long distances and bicycles for shorter trips. Their village (and yes, it is a small village) has all they require, a shop, a bakery, a hardware store, a bar, and a cafe – all a short walk down the main street. They plan to have a vegetable garden, currently buried in the overgrown yard. Their french is improving every day as they practice. We are so excited for them and they leave in just a few weeks.

Books (you knew this would turn to books) on this very same subject are legion and I’ve read many (as have my friends). So I thought I would share some here – in case you, too, are dreaming of a move to France.

Peter Mayle is probably the best known author of such memoirs and novels. They are a delight and worth picking up any of them at book sales or the library.

Then there is this series by Janine Marsh which I haven’t read, but are on my Kindle. Notice how similar the covers – they paint such an idyllic and charming picture of life in France. These look fun and I’ll get to them someday.

I read The French House years ago and passed it on to our francophile friends. This is an enchanting account of a family that tackles a house in rubbles, wins the hearts of a historic village, and finally finds the home they’ve been seeking off the wild coast of France.

The Olive Farm by Carol Drinkwater was another good read. Written by the famed actress from All Creatures Great and Small, this warm and funny memoir takes the reader from the glamour of Cannes to the sunny charm of their small plot of land, which they back breakingly transform from overgrown weeds into a thriving olive farm producing some of the finest olive oil in Provence.

Of course, one of my favorites is My Life in France, a brilliant journey with Julia Child — to read this book is to be right with her in France —  tasting the food, smelling the baking bread, walking on the French cobblestones and embracing it all with Julia’s delight and gusto. Full review HERE.

French Dirt is a very fun and different memoir on moving to France and, yes, starting a garden. Part travelogue, part gardener’s journal, part pilgrimage and wholly enjoyable. What sets this tale apart from the plethora of “my life in France” books, is that Richard is such a hapless American on so many levels. His plans for his garden, forming friendships with the locals, and settling in to a new life often go awry.  

You’ll chuckle and wince as he binge-buys plants and tries to sort out conflicting advice from the villagers — but then you cheer as he toils and worries over his garden, delights in its growth and is distraught by his garden disasters — all while the neighbors politely hide their amusement at the silly American.

And then there was the wonderfully quirky documentary series , Escape to the Chateau, which follows a British family as they trade in their two-bed apartment in Essex for a dilapidated 19th-century French chateau. Upon finding their fairytale castle, the pair begin work to restore it back to its former glory.

Bon Voyage Mes Amis~~ off to live your dream come true

N.B. They often asked if we would join them on this wonderful French venture, but we’ve already warned them that we’ll be frequent guests. Our dream came true 40 years ago when moved to San Francisco and found our little row house out here by the ocean.