Aeolus, ill wind and cooling breezes

With an end of this sweltering summer in sight, it is time to turn our thoughts to other weather phenomena. And with feisty El Nino predicted to blow us a stormy autumn, I begin on an airy note. Wind is the most incredible force, one you can’t see but, boy, can you feel and hear it! In Greek mythology, the Anemoi were the wind deities, with offspring Aeolus, Zephyrus, Boreas and Notus. Aeolus was lord of the winds, the same chap that blew Odysseus back to Ithica. Boreas was the god of the north wind and he was not a nice person (whoever welcomed a north wind?) prone to abducting females and siring at will. His brother Zephyrus was a warm, west wind while brother Notus was an even warmer and very moist south wind. In summary, the ancients were most adept at recognising different types of wind and how they affect us. Modern science has established “windstress”: did you know that there is a direct corelation between instances of stroke and heart attacks, and the strength of the wind? Few people haven’t hear of the sirocco, that blows from the Sahara Desert through north Africa and across the sea to the Mediterranean coast, bringing dust and despair to all in its path. And central Europeans are obliged to suffer bouts of the Fohn, a discharge of ions that blows lethargy and indolence from a south-easterly direction. And we have the hukoui of eastern Europe, the Sharav of Israel and the simoon of the south-east Asian seas.
Aeoleus, mine is a cooling autumnal breeze, please.

An Odyssey of heat and air con

Already mid-August and I am still recovering from a fever that seems to have begun about three months ago. It’s been horrendous, broken sleep and the constant imbibing on water or “rehydrating” as it’s now known. My bath is transformed into a day-long plunge pool. My cooker sits redundant in the kitchen, lost out to a succession of prepped salads. My “respectable” clothing items sit sadly in the wardrobe, spurned in favour of a heap of knotty old t-shirts and leggings that won’t be rendered any worse for being in constant contact with my bodily fluids: even an activity as basic as writing a grocery list results in a stream of salt droplets down my forehead. And the dog days have barely begun. We’re used to the plumbs by now “keep in the shade, minimise exertion, concealing clothing, plenty of sunscreen and hats, hats, hats.” On that note, look at the picture and check out the marvellous new Solbari number: “shields the face from UV light, while its wide brim provides shade for the face and neck. With adjustable, internal brim wiring, etc.” But none of this is any substitute for being cool. I am not alone (I am sure) in wanting a return of those days when wearing dry clothing from morning till eventide was the norm rather than an achievement, when three hours spent in the cinema is to see The Odyssey and not just access the air con (did enjoy both, actually). Whatever, whoever, wherever you are, surviving this brutal heat is a must until the days of nippy breezes and night-time frosts greet us again.

Doubting Thomas

The quest to identify the correct Thomas Malory, author of Le Morte ‘D’Arthur, reads almost as a paradigm of the puzzle in identifying that mythical monarch, himself. William Caxton, credited with introducing the craft of printing to Great Britian, made Le Morte, the saga of the notional Arthur, one of his longer-lasting projects, still being reprinted today. In his foreword to the 1485 edition of the epic poem, Caxton identifies Thomas Malory of Papworth St Agnes as the author. He cites this Malory, as having been imprisoned in the Tower of London, for his Lancastrian sympathies during the Wars of the Roses. Apparently, Malory wrote the epic about Arthur’s struggle to become and remain king as a parallel narrative to the York/Lancastrian dispute. However, scholars have since cast doubt on this assumed identity. Contemporary with Malory of Papworth was Thomas Malory of Newbold Revel in Warwickshire who had also spent bouts in prison. The dispute has arisen because Caxton, in his text, describes his Malory as “a knight”. But no evidence exists of Malory of Papworth ever having been a knight. That honour falls to Malory of Newbold Revel. But the dates don’t add up, our man of Newbold Revel having been born in 1390 and too old to have been an active criminal in the later fifteenth century. To complicate the matter, enter Thomas Malory of Hutton Conyers in Yorkshire, a case put forward by scholar Cecelia Lampp Linton. To add to the confusion, another contender has popped up in recent times, a Thomas of Maleor, in Wales. Really, it is getting like one of those post-modern movies or play where doubles, and doubles of doubles, keep appearing to create metaphors, or something like that. To date, the only contender for solving the conundrum is Merlin the Magician – and where is he when we need him?

The Enduring Fascination of Arthur

Say "King Arthur" and the majority enter into flights of fancy about suits of armour and round tables, holy grails and Sir Lancelot wooing Guinevere right under the monarch's nose. However, that Arthur is the literary one of medieval creation. On the question of origins, the authentic Arthur lived in what we call the Dark Ages (c. 400 to 800 AD), that period following the fall of the Roman Empire, when Europe and Great Britan were over-run by hordes of "barbarians". The historic Arthur became a key figure, defending the Isle against these marauding peoples (actually cultured and civilized Angles and Saxons) - and lost. So, what is it about Arthur that endures: who was he and why does he live on in meta-memory? Recent research points to the Roman town of Viroconium, a small village in Shropshire, not far from Wroxeter. This town was at least significant enough to have been written about by Roman scribe Ptolemy. Its name is a Latinized form of a British or Celtic word "Uiroconion", which means "man wolf". One prominent citizen was Uir-oter or (guess what!) Arthur. It makes perfect sense that this Celtic citizen of a crumbling Roman town should defend the British populace in the 400's against the wicked, Anglo-Saxon hordes. But later writers muddied the picture: look at my opening preamble in scorn and derision. Suits of armour were a Norman addendum whose arrival was not heralded until 1066. The holy grail suggests a Christian tradition, but preachers from Roman and Europe Britain did not arrive until 597 AD, a date far too late in the calendar to have suffused Arthur's warriors with religious zeal. Round tables and Lancelot belong to the writings of Chretien de Troyes (1160-1191) a writer determined to Normanise the British king. With the birth of modern English and the printing press, Arthur had another evolution in the pen of Thomas Malory, who allegedly wrote his epic poem, Morte d'Arthur while imprisoned in the Tower of London. And who was Thomas Malory: that is another story?

Super Storm FX

Just when we never thought it was going to happen again, the heavens opened and the raindrops fell thick and fast, while bright-light flashes and mighty crashes rang over the land. And as if these special effects were not enough, we had hailstones, hard and white and popping furiously on car roofs and against windowpanes. Really: what is it about a robust thunderstorm that makes even grown men and women whoop with a delicious mix of fear and delight? No wonder the ancients invested these spectacular weather events with supernatural meaning. In Greek mythology, it was Zeus who directed lightening barbs at all our heads while further north, Thor took those honours; why, we have even named a weekday after the Nordic gent. Many centuries later, writers pulled the weather into use when creating atmosphere and extended metaphor. Shakespeare’s play, The Tempest, is named after the storm that initiates narrative events, while the hapless King Lear casts himself naked into a grim storm, thus metaphorizing what humanity has done to him. Two and a half centuries later, author Charlotte Bronte puts the titular Jame Eyre through the same process but just in time, humans rescue her from the elements. Another hundred years and in Rebecca, by Daphne du Maurier, a storm causes the sea to surge and return the supposedly drowned titular character to dry land, much to the consternation of all around her. In our time, the storm has become the driver of that literary device beloved by GCSE teachers everywhere, pathetic fallacy. If time would permit, we could spend our lives, wheedling troubled hero/ines who listen to “thunder rumbling” and “lightening dangerously flashing” from the pages of literature. So, we leave it there, gloomy and sultry and overcast. But fear not; a heatwave is forecast for next weekend.

The Bes Gargoyle

 

Though it reached its high point on the Gothic cathedral spires of the Middle Ages, the gargoyle has its origins in ancient Egypt, in the figure of Bes.  Originally, Bes was an Egyptian household deity, presiding over joy and music, mothers, children and animals. His appearance is odd certainly, very squat with a face as broad as his chest, enormous jug ears, eyes to match and least anyone should think he is a soft touch, a muscular body. And then, witness the mane that lends him a gnomish appearance and the tail that reminds us he is not quite human. With looks like that, it was no wonder he could occupy any place on the spectrum of qualities, from cuddly troll doll to outright terror monger. By the year 1000, designers needed guardians for the sacred realms they were building and who best to employ but this cute and squat mannikin, with his mane and tail and ferocious appearance? Didn't we all know that demons flew through the air and the higher up the side of the cathedral the gargoyle was placed, the safer were our souls? Virtue and vice could reside simultaneously in this figure and by the Middle Ages, vice had won. Bes was suddenly sprouting wings in place of a tail, those rounded ears had become pointy and a sharp beak replaced the voluptions mouth. And that humanoid body was suddenly a four-footed, wolf-type animal. Bes, thinly disguised as water spout, had transformed into the gargoyle of Gothic renown. And it is a tribute to this curiosity from the days of the pharoahs that he is still with us, amusing, enchanting and scaring by turns. No wonder Bes/the gargoyle evolved into a television series and at least one movie. Whatever happens, no matter how the world keeps turning, we will always find a role for a Bes.

Super Sixties, Roy Thinnes and The Invaders

Although it’s a little late in the season, I feel bound to praise a television series resurrected from the 1960’s, namely
The Invaders, currently showing on Legend channel between 6 and 7 pm, every weekday evening. It stars Roy Thinnes as chief character David Vincent, an architect (of course) who happens upon a flying saucer landing (or taking off) on a country lane, one night. Vincent soon uncovers a plot from theses invaders (from a “dying planet” as the persistently urgent voiceover keeps reminding us) to take over Earth. And David Vincent makes it his mission to stop them, trying to determine where and who the enemies are, not easy because they look just like us (no little green men here). And we are with him all the way as he helter-skelters across an eerie, permanently sunlit landscape of pastel-hued modernistic buildings, an endless supply of tail-finned vehicles at his command. Ah, Vincent/Thinnes; with his groomed and Brilliantined hair, suave suits and shiny shoes, he is very much a Sixties’ man, a Bond-alike gallant only shooting the non-humans when it is safe to do so, whereupon each one dissolves into a red mist. In a cold war, post-Commie US era, that colour makes political and symbolic sense. The series also serves as an expose of technology so outdated, it borders on steampunk, and what glorious hokum it is, each episode a complete story, yet part of a continuous narrative. It does raise the question though: whatever happened to Roy Thinnes? Well, he went on to star in a number of TV series from the 1960’s into the 1980’s and, at 87, is still with us. Long may Roy Thinnes live. (srry, folks. Series ended on April 2 - but another classic will come along soon, I am certain)

Oil of Basel, forever!

I don't often get jiggy about a product that has been in my cupboard for years and years, earning little more than an occasional sideways glance. But this situation was exceptional: following weeks and weeks of winter rain, the one fine day we had sent me into a bout of sneezing that lasted from early morning to late evening. Friend, I tried everything, sprays, pills, drops - but by nightfall, my still-throbbing nasal cavities forced me on yet another raid of the medicine cabinet. And there it was, the dark-glass bottle with the orange badge and green label, promising relief "for catarrh, colds and sinuses". And hay fever? Friend, I was desperate and double desperate. A vague memory of sprinkling drops on a handkerchief that once relieved a bout of sinusitis prompted me to try it again. I sprinkled, sniffed and within half a minute, the nasal throbbing had stopped, enabling that magical thing, a night's sleep. And I am free of it this morning. What makes Olbas Oil (TM) such a magical remedy? Made of a blend of natural oils, including clove, juniper and eucalyptus, it was patented by a Swiss company before 1916, its name literally meaning "oil of Basel". Its effectiveness as a decongestant has bred a family of Olbas products that include an inhaler, pastilles, nasal spray, baby and even, shower and bath products. The best way to use the product is sparingly, either sniffing occasionally from the bottle or from drops sprinkled on a handkerchief. Leave a sprinkled hanky alongside your pillow overnight for 24-hour relief - ah! As long as us humans wear noses, Olbas oil will be on sale.

Distant landscapes and high peaks

Say the word "mountain" and so many people will imagine you are referring to problems, as in making a mountain out of a molehill. Another cohort may think of thick hiking books, ropes and other climbing gear. Or a trusty pair of skis, accompanied by a pair of ski sticks, and a white and shiny piste ready to be negotiated downward. Sure, the mountain can be all these things but it is so much more. Physically, mountains are the result of the thrust of gargantual geological forces that push mounds of rock and stone upwards. Over time, that is, millions of years, these mountains have become overgrown with plants and vegetation, and occupied by smaller and larger animals. Mountins have always been vulnerable to extremes of climate, particularly in winter, thus making the majority of them unsuitable for habitual human dwelling. The man who comes from the mountain is the one regarded as a bit screwy and far away mentally, not quite one of us. The phrase a day in the mountains is synonymous with getting away from it all, all meaning the cares and worries of the pedestrian lowlands. We expect to come back from "the mountains" relaxed, refreshed and all the better for having been closer to the roof of the world. Poetically, mountains are acknowledged in story and song and aesthetically, are very pleasing to the eye. And where do I begin with that one: from the Renaissance onward, very few artists did not have his take on the mountain, while JMW Turner, Caspar David Friedrich and Paul Cezanne expressed their poetic longings in images of distant landscapes and high peaks. And mountains must be acknowledged as a site of danger, with rock and snow avalanches, landslides et al. With so much of the eco-system under attack, let's hope the mountain stays on top.

Welcome 2026

Happy (belated) 2026 to all readers.  I do apologise but a horrible, debilitating bug robbed all my cranial activity for an entire week. With the return to normality, all the horrors of reality are slowly filtering through, the natural and man-made disasters, the wars and the invasions and fatal illnesses - with all this I realise how lucky we all are to live on this secure and prosperous island with only the promise of a spot of bad weather (Storm Goretti?) to unsettle us. That aside, the beautiful wolf moon, which I wrote about two years ago, has been appearing in the sky every night. I remind readers: "In Anglo-Saxon culture, January’s full moon was called the “Moon after Yule”, the ancient winter solstice festival. Also, it was called “wolf moon”. In days of old, when wolves were active in Northern Europe, February was the time for breeding and wolves become very vocal just before this. In addition, wolves are nocturnal animals and are more active at night. In North America and the few areas of Europe where they survive, wolves howl to communicate over long distances. It is their way of letting the pack know where they are and warning intruders to stay away. They actually howl in the direction of the moon, pointing their faces towards the sky, because this upward projection carries the sound further."  Whatever, the winter solstice is passed, the days are growing longer and the green shoots of spring will appear soon, really and truly. In the meantime, here is a stunning image of the recent moon to greet the year with. 

Jingles All The Way

It is that time of year again and all the retailers are out in force, wooing us with succulent meats and sugared cakes, fluffy slippers and sequinned shirts, with the usual stream of electronics and toys, jewels and chocolates threatening to become a tidal wave. And isn’t it all just marvellous? I am not even going to harp on about bypassing the true meaning of Christmas because, quite frankly, from the music themes to the jingles, to the stream of characters, I am just loving this year’s telly fest. I can’t get enough of Puss in his Boots and the fairytale princesses, and the Grinch-themed ASDA advert, and the lovely, cuddly Unexpected Guest in the Sainsbury’s one. And three cheers to Morrison’s for regaling us with Jona Lewis’s evergreen Christmas hit to a backdrop of growing and harvesting, baking and crafting. I love the ordinary families portrayed in the Tesco one “that's what makes it Christmas.” And I shed tears when that young boy goes to the pink-painted Pandora outlet to purchase his Mum the moon. Wallace and Grommit step into the world of luxury with their Barbour jingle “we’ve got Christmas covered”, while Dawn French is drivin’ home for Christmas, her Better Self fairy lending her a hand to bring us the magic and sparkle of Marks and Spencer. And Aldi’s Kevin the Carrot is all grown up and marrying his girlfriend….aaah! With adverts like these, who needs Christmas movies? And that’s another story. However you spend your cash, have a wonderful, seasonal time.

Sweetly Jamming

No, I am not talking about a fruit preserve that spreads elegantly across cakes and bread; I am arguing in favour of putting a new verb in the English language. Every morning, I can Just About Manage to get out of bed. I Just About Manage to get through the day and Just About Manage to get home again. Afterwards, I Just About Manage to prep a bite of supper and watch an hour or so of trash telly before I Just About Manage to schlepp into bed. At the weekend, I Just About Manage to catch up on all the chores. shopping and feel human for a few hours, before the workaday treadmill begins all over again. Every month, I Just About Manage to make the pay cheque last before the next one pops into the bank account. Every summer, I Just About Manage to live through the festering, hot months before the fresh winds of autumn blow again. And every Christmas, I Just About Manage to get through the season with becoming a victim/perpetrator of homicide/food poisoning/family psychosis. And in my book, this sets up the argument for use of the verb JAM, Just imagine jamming to get to up, jamming to get to work, jamming to prep supper, jamming to get through chores and jamming to eke out the monthly pay packet. Right now, I am jamming to write this blog - blog jammed? - and later, I will jam to finish assembling an item of Wayfair furniture purchased a month ago. And as for jamming the Season of Goodwill? Watch this space.

The Woman is Back

Despite its gothic memes, Susan Hill’s classic novel, The Woman in Black, is a post-modern tale. The narrative serves to remind the reader that you can’t always do something about every horrible situation you happen to find yourself in. To remind readers: lawyer’s clerk Arthur Kipps is sent by his boss to a remote part of England, to sort out the affairs of a deceased woman. There, he is hosted by a subdued though welcoming population as he weaves through the complexities of funeral and personal documents of the deceased. However, even this mixture of sanguinity and practicality cannot save Arthur from the machinations of the titular woman in black, her spirit grown malignant because of separation from her child in life. Arthur is utterly blameless of the proceedings that happened many years before he arrived. Yet, like a fly at the centre of a web, he becomes a victim in the direst fashion. Unlike the “typical” gothic hero or heroine, he is unable to escape his fate. He has not created the monster that stalks him (like Victor Frankenstein) and as with Van Helsing of Dracula fame, he cannot lay the evil to rest with the simple stroke of a mallet. His only solution is to keep a clear head and a sense of proportion as he wades through the mesh of circumstance: maybe that is the message of the novel? From serving time as an enthralling book, The Woman in Black has gained success as a play in the Fortune Theatre. Now, “one of the most successful and longest-running theatre shows in the history of London’s West End” has spread to suburban theatres, most recently that in Alexandra Palace. And there is still time to catch it before it closes on Saturday, 25 October. Really, truly, the woman is back. https://www.alexandrapalace.com/whats-on/the-woman-in-black/

Dracula, the Undead Novel

It is probably a little early in the season to talk of the Undead. But the play based on Bram Stoker's immortal novel is already in full swing at the Lyric Hammersmith (11 September to 11 October, written by Moreen Lloyd Malcolm and directed by Emma Baggott). A by-line on the Lyric H site reads "In this major new adaption of Bram Stoker's horror classic, Moreen Lloyd Malcolm uncovers the female voice at the heart of the tale". Interesting because essentially, the work is all about the significance of the voice. The action opens through the medium of Jonathan Harker's diary, and is continued later on by the correspondence of the other characters. Later on again, under the agency of Van Helsing, the diaries are recorded on that hot-tip technology of the time, the phonograph and its wax cylinders - jee-buzz! The first time I read it, the novel puzzled me, it coming across as a rather confused mish-mash of events outlined by a knot of middle-aged, rather egotistical males, the only real action coming from Jonathan's diary. But he too is male, commenting on feminine frailty and vapidity, while seeming in fear of the overtly sexual women he encounters at the Transylvanian castle. Seriously, what is it about this novel that, more than 100 years following its publication, has made it spawn more vampires than were ever put to rest with wooden stakes? I mean, there are hardly enough trees in the universe to finish them off. However, subsequent readings have revealed other strands, among them a Victorian parable on the role of women. Lucy Westenra and Mina Murray are not the feisty, self-determining gothic heroines of eighteenth-century literature but the rather vapid parlour creatures of nineteenth-century ordinance. One woman falls victim to vampirism, and the other almost sucumbs to the same fate until she is rescued by the men in the tale. But there is much to admire in the book, not least Jonathan's lush views of Eastern Europe, and the sublime Van Helsing and his pathology of the vampire. Right now, in advance of going to the play, I am restless as a werewolf at full moon....ooooow! Needless to say, I am a fan of the vintage movie (Dracula, Tod Browning, Karl Freund, 1931) just dissolving with delight when the wonderful, evergreen Bela Lugosi waxes lyrical about his children of the night. How the play lives up, I have yet to find out. Watch this space. https://lyric.co.uk/shows/dracula/

Who’s Soreen Now?

Or should that be “whose”? On this sunny morning, the niceties of grammar escape me, particularly when I am wallowing in disappointment at the outcome of a product that woo-ed me all summer, with its AHA-refed siren (or Soreen) jingle. I finally bought my slab half a week ago and friend, I just cannot understand the appeal of the stuff. For starters, when I try to cut it, the slab shies away from the knife’s blade and turns into a gluey lump, rather like trying to carve a block of plasticene. The resulting slice is reduced to a fattish finger of cake, rather than a generous hunk (like the lady on TV shows us) making it difficult to spread butter. Since my slab is still well in advance of the use-by date, it cannot be that. Or is there something else I don’t know? Friend, rather like one of those Blind Date columns in the Guardian newspaper, this is a romance that will never lift off. In summary, my Soreen has to go. It does deserve a rating though.
Overall appeal: packaging bright and attractive, so five out of ten.
Taste: rather good actually, so ten out of ten.
Texture: too gluey and sticky, I’ll give it two.
Table manners: in my Soreen’s stoic acceptance of my non-infatuation, it scores “excellent”.

The Sleepy Month

I can’t say why, but August the month has ever imbued me with a sense of sleepiness. Before the autumnal nip refreshens the air, a soporific inertia pervades every place. Humans snooze on beaches and on dried-up lawns. Cats and dogs doze in sunny corners and winged insects are rendered drunk on the sugary detritus of summer picnics. With the energy of earlier summer fizzled out, school exams done and dusted and the growing season faded away, we are left with a sense of waiting, for the results and the harvest and what better to do than sleep it off? And yet, there is life in the waning year.
Those of you on release from work and academia can choose from a raft of summer festivals. Depending on your location, the following may be of interest. On the first Saturday of the month, denizens of north-west England may catch a procession of rush sculptures or “rush-bearings.” This veneration of the wild plant reaches back to when rushes were valued as floor-coverings.
Fast-forward to the first Monday following August 12 and to Marham church in Cornwall. A Queen of the Revel is crowned by Father Time in front of the church, which was founded by St. Morwenna. Seated on horseback, the Queen is led to the Revel ground, where wrestling and other “Cornish” amusements take place. A week forward again and it’s haste to the River Teifi (bordering Ceredigion, Carmarthenshire and Pembrokeshire in west Wales), and to the annual coracle races. This ancient form of boat is put to the test by modern-day fishers in catching a variety of sea and river species.
Third Saturday of the month and it’s on to West Witton (Yorkshire) to witness the burning of Owd Bartle after he is carried in procession through the town to the foot of Grasshill. Fear not: Bartle is made of straw, the effigy of a criminal from sometime in the past. Not quite Wicker Man, then. And this is only the merest flavour of what happens in August on the teeny island of GB. So get up and get going. Watch out for September.

Essence of Summer

The shopping mall is filled with bustle,
Peeling skin and bright-red faces
Van McCoy is playing The Hustle
Sun-browned limbs in public places – suddenly, it’s summer.

Refracted vistas; walls that waver
Bright-blue sky and plane delayed
Lip sunscreen with fruity flavour
We only find respite in shade–that’s just summer.

Braided hair and straw sunbonnet
Rose-pink dawn and evening stars
A broken flip-flop, jewels upon it
Melting tarmac, dusty cars– bring on summer.

Long, bright days and ice-cream sundae
Salty snacks and cool, sweet drinks
Short, dark night and boredom, Monday
Flaming oranges, shocking pinks –good ol’ summer.

Bright-green salads, dressings oily,
Polka dots on painted nails
Strawberries, cream and paper doily
Stripy beach bag, wind-blown sails – celebrating summer.

Swimming parties by the river,
Gentle breezes, yellowed grasses
Icy water makes us shiver
Clinking cubes in cocktail glasses: we love summer.

Sweaty nights and shirts are sticky
Lightening forks and violent thunder
Broken sleep with dreams so icky
Downpours sudden and – no wonder; it’s summer.

All too soon, maybe tomorrow
The bright sun fades, the darkness conquer
Season’s joy will turn to sorrow
And that is when we will long for – summer.

Magical Midsummer

Extremes have always fascinated human beings, the largest, fastest, shortest, and so forth. Whether midsummer (c. June 21 in the northern hemisphere) the longest day or shortest night, is moot. What matters is that something special, magical is afoot on this remarkable day/night. Shakespeare's play, A Midsummer Night's Dream is a nod to this sense of rarity. In European traditions, the supernatural world mingles with that of the human, causing a heady mix of havoc and revelation, recognition and reconciliation. As in every good comedy play, the ending of AMND is a world put to rights. But long before the man from Warwickshire began his writing, the known world venerated the summer solstice most notably through the construction of stone "calendar" sites like Stonehenge. The vanquishing of the druids saw the transforming of these pagan venerations into St. John's Eve, a time for lighting bonfires and spreading the resulting ashes on soil in prep for the following year's crops, all very good agricultural practice. In these secular times, most of us don our summer finery and enjoy the spate of events that summer brings, the outdoor concerts and opera, the tennis at Wimbledon, the racing at Ascot, all served up with strawberries and cream. But I always imagine them spangled with a dash of the ancient, midsummer magic.

Amazing Megan Mary

In 2024, US author Megan Mary published The Dream Haunters: A Metaphysical Mirror of Magick. Once again, the narrative pitches the reader straight into a world of dreams, storms, mirrors, cats, pumpkins and spells. Now, Megan Mary has published a sequel, The Dream Mirrors: A Metaphysical Mirror of Magick. The author weaves dream interpretation seamlessly into the series of events. The story’s setting, Skye Manor, is on an island remote, yet connected to the cosmos. Nor does the author shun technology, the characters (protagonist Hannah, Aunt Jewelia, Madame Morgan, Ashlin, Old Man Adams) making a healthy use of cars and telephones as they battle the dark forces of the Dream Haunters, entities who would forever deprive dreamers of the route to their subconscious store of knowledge and wisdom. At every turn, I recognised the interpretation methodologies as laid out in my book, Dreams: Exploring Uncharted Depths of Consciousness (Mandrake of Oxford, 2020). In Megan Mary's later book, Hannah is presented with the philosophy of the mirror, learning that what she (and we) see in the glass is but one step towards finding the true self. The mirror is a topic that I explore in my other book, Wicked Uncles and Haunted Cellars: What the Gothic Heroine Tells Us Today (Greenwich Exchange, 2024). Other gothic motifs that endear Megan Mary’s narrative to me include the ever-pervading storm, the old house and family connections, and unravelling mysterious documents. I was touched also with her selective use of the Celtic language, actually Irish, which I learned while growing up in Dublin. Above all is the warm sense of connection between the female characters, the sense that all women (fictional and real) can throw off victimhood and take our own steps towards self-actualisation, that we are not helpless pawns in a (mostly) male game of politics and economics. This is a message I stress again and again in “Wicked Uncles”, the gothic heroine being an intelligent, energetic and rational trope emergent in the literature of the time. Since “The Dream Mirrors” is the second in Megan Mary’s series, the time to get acquainted with her fiction is now.

The Conspicuous Castle

From the inconspicuous motte and bailey of the Normans, through medieval fortified dwellings to the grand palaces of later centuries, the castle has been a feature in British landscapes for the past thousand years. And in the history of literature that castle has morphed also, shrunken and expanded into a myriad dwellings, mansions, country cottages, to modernist, modest flats. But this blog concerns the castle, that delicious, brooding, isolated edifice, anthropomorphic entrance with slitted window eyes and portcullis teeth, rising to a zillion spired turrets, useful for hanging out the pennants in times of war and the castle laundry in quieter days. However, such real estate is rather pricey, both to purchase and to maintain, which is why the best castles live in the pages of literature, in romantic tales of brave knights and lovely maidens. Free of plumbing and glazing issues, these graceful figures are free to meet on moonlit battlements, to fall in love and out again, to escape the tyranny of despots, to drink, dance, laugh, cry and finally, marry and produce the next generation of knights and maidens. Ah, where would literature have been without the castle! I retreat to my modern, modest pad and urge you all to follow the link to my newly-published volume Wicked Uncles and Haunted Cellars: What The Gothic Heroine Tells Us Today