There can surely only be one thing more gratifying than historical research into wine and food, and that’s researching wine and food, while contemporaneously consuming wine and food. Not in a library of course, that would see one ejected faster than a soot blackened chimney sweep from a Regency drawing room, but then, that’s the beauty of the internet.
Granted, actual convict food wouldn’t have been up to much. A monotonous ration of flour and meat, enlivened only with a spot of tea and sugar.
But if discovering, that for those with money, a good Burgundy, a smattering of pickled olives and gherkins, and English cheese, were all available in 1820’s Sydney sends one off to ransack the refrigerator – who is there to complain?
As per the proverbial sapling that falls in the arboretum, if there is no-one there to witness the covert scoff, did it really happen?
Did the victuals in the photo survive scarcely a minute thrice after the smart phone crackled out its satisfying artificial shutter sound? My lips are sealed with the lingering aftertaste of Mediterranean salt cut through with notes of citrus fruit and honey…
The East End of London in the 1950’s, San Francisco in the ‘swinging sixties’, Saigon during the Vietnam War, the American Civil Rights movement, Cold War Russia.
Sound like promising settings for an historical romance? Not according to much of the romance writing industry.
How is it that back in the 1970’s and 80’s World War Two was considered to be an historical event and yet thirty to forty years on, anything that happened in the same number of years susequent to the end of the war is not? Surely historicals should now span out to at least 1985?
When did time stand still and history go into pause mode?
In a society that embraces change at a pace in every other sphere, it seems remarkable that when it comes to our history we’re stuck.
Isn’t it time to turn off the freeze-frame?
I approached Mary Brock Jones’ ‘A Heart Divided’ with a mixture of excitement and trepidation.
Excitement – because I believe the incredible history offered by the Central Otago Goldfields in the South Island of New Zealand makes it deserving of a romance sub-sub genre all of its own, and any release of a new book set in that era only serves to advance the cause.
Trepidation – because I am intimately familiar with all of the places in Brock Jones’ novel. The beautifully stark landscape studded with sculptural rock formations is a hero to get lost in and fall in love with in itself. To have lived in Central Otago is to yearn for it. So it was important to me as a reader that the writer did the landscape justice. Fortunately, I needn’t have worried. Brock Jones depicted the environment wonderfully well and any reader who has not visited will almost certainly come away with a true sense of the remarkable setting. Continue reading
Diving back into The Chieftain’s Curse in order to refresh my memory for this review, I’d barely read a few sentences before I found myself ensnared deep within Cragenlaw Castle’s walls and in serious danger of curling up on the sofa to read the book a second time instead of getting down to work.
When I finally tore myself away, achieved only by switching off the E-reader completely, the residue of Cragenlaw and its inhabitants, were still suspended in my consciousness like a spell cast by the witch responsible for the curse itself. Continue reading
Poking my head out of my writing cave for a while, and probably because at the moment I’m working on a historical project, the thing that is playing on my mind is the fraught subject of historical accuracy. Continue reading