Featuring lots of old photos and interviews with locals, the 120-page book was produced by me for Windrose Rural Media Trust, for which I act as voluntary co-ordinator.
It’s available from the community pub and community shop, and also directly from me. I have to send a copy to the British Library, now that the international standard book number (ISBN) has been registered, so, in theory, people should be able to order it from book shops.
It’s been a long gestation and a difficult birth – my designer was beset with software problems and then a car crashed into a tree, causing him and thousands of others in the area to lose their internet for several days.
But it’s here, and the feedback has been lovely. It’s been a privilege to hear local people’s stories of their childhood and how the village used to be.
All sale proceeds go to the pub, the shop and to Windrose, a registered charity.
The project is supported by grants from Dorset Council’s Community and Culture Fund, the South West Procurement Alliance/LHC Community Benefit Fund, Magna Housing Association’s Community Improvement Fund, and the British Association for Local History’s Small Grants Programme.
Here in Lush Places, the trees and shrubs are full of red berries, and crunchy leaves are piled high along pavements.
Woodsmoke coils out of chimney pots and the light – oh, the light – can be just sublime.
I like autumn. It’s a real punctuation point in the seasons, a promise of things to come.
It’s half term and up at Mapperton House, there’s a Halloween trail where children and accompanying adults can wander around the gorgeous garden, looking for clues.
It’s a beautiful spot – my manor from heaven and one of the loveliest places around.
Once upon a time, Mr Grigg and I lived in a farm cottage on the estate. And, more recently, I worked there one day a week to give me some sanity and open space when I was freelancing and chained to a laptop.
It’s the day after the clocks went back and it’s one of those Sundays that seems to have gone on and on.
I was up early and did all the ironing, fed the dogs, order a dog harness, water bowl, poo bags and three motion sensor lights for the landing, made a pot of tea, scored eight on my daily popquiz – Popquizza.com – and finished an episode of The Rest Is Politics US before the clock showed seven-fifteen.
By eight o’clock, I’d walked the dogs and was ready for breakfast.
I’ve managed to tick loads of things off my to-do list, although by three o’clock this afternoon I was flagging and the dogs were doing circles because they were so hungry.
Mr Grigg has dug up four lots of leggy lavender for me to replace, and there is more planting to come.
I’ve also gone mad with the bulbs again, ordering with gay abandon from Farmer Gracy and then bricking it when a massive box the size of Matabeleland arrived on the doorstep with a smug look on its face.
It’s half term in Dorset this coming week but no doubt the weather will be dreadful, so the chance of me finding room for 90 narcissi bulbs is pretty remote.
Two years ago, I ordered so many tulips I had to enlist the support of Number One Son and the tiny grandson who waddled around in dear little wellies and was armed with a lethal dibber.
We managed to plant them all but, of course, I was away when they flowered, so I missed the lot.
With just five days of October left, it’s been a busy month.
And now the nights are darker, it’s time for slowly simmered stews, log fires and a ridiculous binge on all four series of Stranger Things to remind myself of the plot and premise before the new one drops at the end of November.
I’m going to try to pull my socks up and blog at least twice a week, but as my late mother used to say, the road to hell is paved with good intentions.
Thank you to NetGalley and the publishers for an advance review copy of these two novels in exchange for an honest review.
I’m currently reading Broken Country by Claire Leslie Hall, who is coming to speak at the always excellent Bridport Literary Festival. Set in Dorset in the 1950s and 1960s, the novel is being turned into a film by Reese Witherspoon’s production company, Hello Sunshine.
I’m also just about to start The Widow by the master of the courtroom drama thriller, John Grisham. It comes out later this month.
The Sharaf family live in Virginia, USA, after fleeing from war-torn Afghanistan to safety in America. The couple have four children and the nub of the plot is what happens when the older daughter embraces a western way of life and rejects the family’s traditional Muslim culture.
The story is told chapter by short chapter through the voices of the people who know the family or are somehow involved in the aftermath of a terrible incident which threatens to tear the family apart. It takes a while to learn what has happened and to whom, by which time we have learned more about the family and their pursuit of the American dream.
The bystander narration works well, like a documentary, but we can never really be sure of the interal workings and motivation of the characters because we are never inside their heads. This ‘reportage’ style is effective, with unreliable narrators vying to give their opinions, making for a powerful narrative, full of speculation and sometimes prejudice.
However, it is also tricky because all we know about the family is what others tell us. At the end, we’re still not sure if the outcome is just or not, because we don’t know the truth. This is slightly frustrating, but is a really thought provoking device because it confirms or goes against the reader’s own thoughts and prejudices.
The novel does not shy away from racism and Islamophobia, and the discussions around that make it an even stronger book.
It was a compelling story, which flowed very easily. I thought the author did a terrific job in capturing the different voices in a totally authentic way.
This is one of those novels that I romped through (apart from the middle, which sagged a bit for me) and then spent several days pondering the story.
Set in the Australian outback, mostly in the 1950s and 60s, this is a family saga which starts with a terrible tragedy and then more trauma is piled on top.
Sounds depressing, but it wasn’t. The author writes well and it’s an easy read, with short chapters from different perspectives – family and the few characters around them.
It’s about family secrets, coming to terms with awfulness and how you deal with it. Everyone is coping with their own personal tragedy and the interaction between the characters is like when snooker balls are hit by a cue.
Stedman’s The Light Between Oceans (a much better title than A Far-flung Life) was made into a successful film. I’m not sure that this would work so well, as some of the subjects tackled are difficult to handle on the big screen although, in the novel, they work because the reader empathises with the characters, largely because of the writer’s skill.
I enjoyed this book and will recommend it. I didn’t love it and, to be consistent with my ratings, I’m giving it three stars.
I can’t believe this once little pup is now a grown-up boy.
There’s nothing he likes better than chasing after a ball and bringing it back to me, placing it at my feet.
Sometimes, he’ll launch himself skywards to catch it in the air. It’s quite a spectacle.
Meanwhile, Ruby stares and stares and stares at insects, birds and, when we’re in France, geckos – pointing and ready to pounce. Here she is, posing in the poppies.
Ruby the Korthals Griffon is a rescue dog, who came to us at 11 months after spending most of her puppy time in a crate. She’s now seven-and-a-half and still nuts.
She’s obsessed with pacing the boundaries and, given half a chance, will head off into the sunset and come back maybe an hour later, which is why she is not allowed off-lead unless she’s in the garden, in a secure field or on the beach at West Bay where sea defence boulders keep her penned in at each end.
Edgar came to us as a puppy from a nearby farm. We weren’t actually looking for a second dog but made the fatal mistake of going to see a friend’s litter, which were three-quarters Labrador and a quarter blue merle collie.
I ummed and ahed until I was told little Eddie – as he was known then – had been earmarked by a chap who lived in a town flat with no garden.
That might have been a ruse but it was enough to make up my mind. A dog like this would need to run.
So Eddie was renamed Edgar – a family name – and came to live with us.
He’s a loyal, loving boy and much more obedient than Ruby.
We do have to watch out for that Labrador tail which can whip a glass off a coffee table at five paces.
And he has inherited the Labrador gene of eating anything, which has its advantages in that he was much easier to train than his ‘auntie’, who is totally disinterested in food and is a bit of a lost cause.
Anyway, happy birthday Edgar, and here’s to many more of them.
Maddie Grigg 