French Escape

It is twelve months since Hugi died and there are  times, and places, when I really miss her. Seven thirty on a Saturday morning on Brancaster beach, is one of them.  I always park at the top of the road leading to the beach. I'm not one to study tide tables and I don't want to risk being trapped in the carpark, when the road floods.  On Saturday there were few people about to disturb the peace, but a  brave, barefooted swimmer walked past me as I got out of the car. I kept my coat on, wore scarf and gloves. It might be April but it wasn’t that warm. The walk along the bank to the beach brings me even closer to Hugi, she's running in front of me, making me hurry, eagerly anticipating the sea and the sand.  Several vans drive past, racing to get to the carpark before the road is closed by the incoming tide and b y the time I reach the carpark, the van drivers are are donning wetsuits, sorting their paddle boarding equipment and exchanging gossip. The sea looks uninviting as

  It must be April. The cows are back on Midsummer Common...  ...and even more on Stourbridge Common. It's still cold, and very wet, but spring is very definitely here.         I took time out from packing and planning to have lunch with my sister, and a walk in the gardens at Stowe. It is beautiful and somehow uplifting, even in the rain.                   There hasn't been much time for writing recently, but work on my third book has been progressing in the background. In the midst of packing and sorting, the proofread manuscript for Journeys End was returned from the publisher. I had wondered whether to skip the proof reading stage of the process (all of these things cost money) and indeed, Martina. the copy editor, had done such a good job there was very little to correct. But the proof reader did pick up one error that had been missed— a character used someone’s name before they possibly could have known it. Name removed. All sorted.  Almost as soon as I had returned th