Carol Kinnee's Blog

Five hundred years from now, will someone gaze at your front door and whisper, "Look at the workmanship! The craftmanship! How old do you...

Arrivederci Italia!Two weeks pass in a chaotic rush of sights, sounds, scents, and color, but at last we say goodbye to Limoncello spritzes, eggplant parmigiana, and panelle, a deep-fried chickpea flour fritter. As for you, sword fish, unidentified fish fillets, and sardines, I never knew you. I was warned that Sicily and southern Italy are known for the abundance of fresh seafood in their menus. I wrote no fish on the diet preference sent to me by Approach tours.

White Chapel, London, England. Pretend it's 1888. Jack the Ripper is hunting, using White Chapel as a personal killing ground. The squalid, overcrowded inner city is home to a diverse, ever-changing population. Easy pickings for someone with evil on their mind.

After my trip to the UK last year, I decided to write some historical fiction.

This is my first attempt to capture it:

. . . Night's greedy arms had draped themselves across the road by the time Nettie pushed through the heavy door of the tannery. The darkness drenched the rough cobblestones and shrouded the faces of the passing strangers. She kept her eyes down, glancing up now and then to peer myopically ahead. The dragging toe of her left foot caught the edge of a broken stone and s he stumbled, catching herself before she fell. A whimper of pain broke past her clenched teeth.

Her sudden stop drew the eye of a loafing drunkard. Smirking, he grabbed her arm with one hard, calloused hand.

"Best be careful there, lassie. You don't want to be ahurtin' yourself. You might muddy up that pretty little face," he said and brayed a laugh. "Maybe you might be looking for business? I can't pay in coin, but I would gladly share me Mother's Ruin with you," he added, leering.

Nettie flinched, yanked her arm free, and changing direction darted onto the street.

"I told you I'd pay in gin," he yelled after her.

Head down, eyes locked on the ground, Nettie pushed through the crowd. It was late. Too late for the likes of her to be out and alone. It was the time of night he roamed the streets—the White Chapel butcher, Jack the Ripper. It was only the week before that Mary Jane Kelly was found mutilated, her body left sprawled in an alley.

Nettie swallowed hard and moved faster. M isty rain coated her cheeks, soaking the patched shawl covering her shoulders. The raw damp air triggered the cough that had clung to her since Guy Fawkes Day a month ago. Four days before the unfortunate Mary met her end.

Another bout of coughing greeted the thought. She forced herself to breathe shallowly, trying to calm her lungs the way old Granny Jensen had taught her. The stench of mud and manure with its underlying reek of rotting fish filled her nose. She choked, coughing harder.

The thick fog rolling in from the Thames, gobbled up the broken buildings lining the road, shrinking her world to an arm's length in front of her nose. A week's worth of heavy rain had overwhelmed the bursting sewers and every step squished under the cracked soles of her boots.

"Keep moving," she muttered, tightening her grip on the two ha'pennies trapped in her palm. Their hard edges bit into her hand. Two ha'pennies. The price for scraping the putrid layer of entrails from the tanner's vats.

A hard bump from behind knocked her forward and almost off her feet. She swung and locked glares with a flinty-eyed street waif.

"Oh, sorry, your ladyship. I didn't see you thar," he said, ducking in an impudent bow.

He tossed her a cocky grin and melted into the crowd. Nettie took a deep breath. It was a good thing she carried the half-pennies in her hand and not my purse. Pick pockets didn't wear signs, at least not those who didn't get caught . . . .

Historical fiction?

I love it. It pulls me out of my world and dumps me into another time and place. I'm deep in a forest, watching a runaway hide from the king's soldiers, or on a train holding my breath as the gestapo demands papers from the man seated in front of me. Historical fiction writers not only create their story, but they craft it from our past and make us feel as if we are there.

Is it easy?

You might think so. After all, we have Google with its information overload, websites filled with maps, art, and history, and libraries stuffed with books written in the time the writer's chosen. Come on, it should be simple. But how do you get started? Cross your fingers, click your heels three times and dive down the rabbit hole, hoping to find yourself in the time frame you've chosen? There's a lot of information and history out there, complete with weird tidbits of knowledge guaranteed to distract you from your intended research path.

My distractions?

Discovering the Victorian sleep line where you paid two pennies for the luxury of a hangover, as in, literally hanging over a rope to sleep. Thriftier guests could spend a penny and sleep sitting upright on a bench all night.

A Very Victorian Two-Penny Hangover

Learning about the Jack the Ripper Tour after our trip.

https://www.jack-the-ripper-tour.com/

Stumbling on blogs like Jack Chesher's Living London History blog and getting caught up reading through them.

https://livinglondonhistory.com/

Be warned, once you start looking, it's easy to be led astray!

What's my story?

The first novella, It's in the Bones, is set in today's London, in White Chapel, an area brimming with ghostly potential. As I said before, in 1888, this was Jack the Ripper's stomping grounds, but research opens all sorts of rabbit holes, and after writing what you saw above, my story took me back to 1850 instead. Poverty was rife, the sewers ripe and overflowing and the graveyards as crowded with the dead as the streets were with the living. It was London in the era of the resurrection men, the graverobbers, ghouls who made their living selling fresh corpses to the hospitals of the time. Medical science was evolving and cadavers were in demand. It was difficult to teach anatomy to the fresh young doctors-to-be without having something or someone to dissect.

The story line?

It is still developing. I can say that it's both a ghost story and a modern-day romance. In the words of Reg, (the supervisor on the building site where my protagonist apprentice architect, Kam works):

“London is old. Two thousand years of blood and sweat. You kick a rock and there might be a spirit attached to it. If . . . you believe in ghosts. Me? I like to keep far away from any of that."

He's right. London is old and riddled with ghost stories. All it took was a nighttime ghost tour, and my imagination was swirling. So here's a hot summer's day toast to It's in the Bones. I'll let you know when it's finished.

Cheers!

Carol

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Happy Krampusnacht, or maybe I should say, “Lock the doors and hide your children.” The bad ones anyway. Krampus is interested in kids who have been naughty, not nice.

Krampus night is the evening before St. Nicholas Day, but the dark, edgy Krampus is known to hang out with the more laid back St. Nick. Maybe a case of good cop, bad cop? Or is he the evil enforcer ready to scare kids into good behaviour?

I learned about Krampus while watching the TV series, Grimm. Their Christmas special that year, featured the hairy, horned and fanged beast. If you’re looking for it, it’s Season 3 “The Twelve Days of Krampus”. Last year, I picked up a bottle of Krampus beer as a stocking stuffer for my daughter's fiancé. The beer was as dark as the figure of Krampus on the label, but it was very tasty.

The Krampus legend dates back to 12th century alpine German-speaking Europe. The word comes from the German verb krampus meaning to claw. It’s possible Krampus may have been the son of the Norse god, Hel, lord of the underworld.

Back before the advent of spying elves, and gentle warnings of, "You better be good. Santa is coming," kids were told, “Be careful. Krampus is coming. If you are naughty, he will beat you with sticks, put you in a bag and take you away!”

In Austria, some houses sported year-round bundles of birch sticks hung on the wall as a gentle reminder that Krampus has a long memory. If bad behaviour could lead to a visit from Krampus, I would be making sure that I was very good. A visit to Krampus just doesn't have the same meaning as a trip to see Santa at the mall.

When Krampus comes to town, he doesn’t enter quietly. He stomps into town rattling chains and clanging bells, before swooping down on the bad children, switching them with birch sticks, popping them into his basket and sweeping them away to the underworld.

And the good children? Well, St. Nicholas arrives the next day and leaves presents in the boots they set outside their doors. For the not-so-good children? Things are a bit different for the naughty kids that Krampus failed to capture. They end up with a lump of coal, and a bundle of birch sticks stuffed in their boot. Do you think they get the not-so-subtle threat?

Today Krampusnacht is celebrated all over the world. Krampus runs are huge crowd pleasers, taking place in many cities and towns. Participants dress like Krampus, grab their switches and head out to punish bad children and naughty parents alike. A word to the wise, if you plan on going, wear padded pants. Some of those Krampus lookalikes take their role seriously.

Cheers,

Carol

P.S.

If you're local and looking for paperback copies of my books, I have some available.

Nothing beats a weekend in your hometown, surrounded by talented, creative people, while meeting readers and signing books. My time at the Creative Craft Fair in Victoria was three days of feel good moments, while immersed in the buzz of a busy pre-holiday craft fair. It's a good thing I was tethered to my books and not free to roam. I could have done a lot of shopping. I have a weakness for handmade soaps so I confess I bought a few. The good news is I'm about to take a class on how to make my own. More on that later.

As I chatted with readers, signed books and people watched, I decided to do a little informal surveying. Nothing official, just a "I have a book survey question for you. What do you prefer? Paperback or e-book?"

The results didn't matter, as my books, like It's Not a Game, are available in paperback and e-book. The outcome did surprise me. My sample audience was between 15 and 90 years old.

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Can you guess the answer? About 95% of the people that I asked said paper.

The why answers to my book survey question the feel and weight of holding a book in your hands less eye strain (especially after a lot of screen time during the day) being able to see the future (as in you can tell where the chapter ends, and how many pages you need to read before turning out the light)

So what do you say? Me? I have to say, it depends. If I'm heading out on a trip, my Kindle can hold a lot of books. If I'm reading at the beach? I'm on the paper side.

Enough about that.

Happy Cabernet Franc Day!

Or if you prefer something wilder,

Happy International Cheetah Day!

Cheers,

Carol

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Today is Odd Socks Day. I like it. A day to celebrate the quirky habit of wearing mismatched socks. Does this mean people have given up trying to explain the mystery of the missing sock? You know the one? Socks go into the washing machine as a pair and come out single and ready to mingle?

Then again, some people wear odd socks regardless of whether there is a match available. It's a statement, a freedom, a Take that fashion police! message.

Me? I like my socks to match, but have no problem mixing things up. I only have one rule. They have to be the same length. No one tall, one footie-sized. I would spend the day pulling one up or rolling one down.

So why do odd socks get their own day? It turns out Odd Socks Day is the start to Anti-Bullying Week. So there you have it. If our feet can make it through a day without fighting over their differences, why can't the rest of our bodies?

Have a great Odd Socks Day!

Cheers,

Carol

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[image error][image error][image error][image error][image error][image error]PenzancePenzance, Cornwall

First stop in my book of short romantic fiction based in England and Ireland. This one is a ghost story, one of those love lost through the ages, never-ending longing, unfulfilled . . . Well, no, probably not. I’m a romantic. For me, it’s about the happy ending.

Penzance in Cornwall is the perfect spot for a bit of otherworldly writing. The town’s colourful history is layered with pirates, smugglers, attacks from the sea, and an ancient prophecy written by Merlin himself.

There shall land on the stone of Merlyn,

those who shall burn Paul, Penzance, and Newlyn

Merlyn's stone and the Spanish Armada It's 1595. The Spanish armada prowls the seas, flexing its naval muscle, and searching for a way that Spain can extend its grasp. The coast of Cornwall is a tempting target that would provide a base on English soil. The towns of Mousehole, Mou-zel not Mouse-hole, Paul, Newlyn, and Penzance are in reach, and Mousehole, the home of Merlyn's stone, is their first target. Four ships bombard Mousehole with cannon fire before landing soldiers who carry out a round of pillaging, set fire to houses and carry off prisoners. Flushed with success, the armada sets sail for Newlyn and Penzance. At the time of the Spanish armada's attack, the words of Merlyn's ancient prophecy are deeply engrained in the citizens of the towns. They leave their homes and flee for the hills. The next day, they rally and fight back. The ships of the armada retreat.[image error][image error][image error][image error][image error][image error][image error]On the road to MouseholeThe real pirates of Penzance The ocean is a dangerous place, and the rocky, undefended coastline of Cornwall in the mid 1600s to 1800s is easy pickings. ,Barbary pirates attack and plunder the coast, descending with little to no warning, taking captives and carrying them off for ransom or sale in the thriving slave markets of northern Africa. Fishing boats are easy targets, their crews convenient prey. Most of the captives will never be seen again, and only the empty boats bobbing on the ocean’s swell mark they ever existed.

The pirates of Gilbert and Sullivan’s comic opera, ,The Pirates of Penzance were nothing like the real pirates who plagued Cornwall's coasts.

Smugglers The mid 1700s and 1800s saw the British crown raise taxes on imported goods like tea, wine, and spirits sometimes as much as 250%. With surviving and raising families getting harder, smuggling is a lucrative business. A fast boat is a way to higher income. Evading the excisemen puts food on the table and provides a few luxuries for families barely scraping by. The down side to being a smuggler makes staying ahead of the government agents charged with enforcing the law vital. The price of getting caught by the excise man is hanging or deportation.Wreckers Penzance, the largest, most westerly town in Cornwall, sits at the edge of where the English Channel and the Atlantic ocean meet. The bones of over 6000 shipwrecks litter its rocky shores. The laws of the day make it legal to claim goods washed ashore from grounded ships, unless . . . there are survivors. Woe be it to any half-drowned crew or passenger who staggers to shore. Chances are they will meet their end in a watery grave and the wreckers won't be accused of breaking the law.

Looking for a gothic romance set in the days of smugglers and wreckers? Try Daphne Du Maurier's classic mystery ,Jamaica Inn. It was made into a movie by Alfred Hitchcock in 1939. It's been redone since then, and also, in 1983, released as a mini series starring Jane Seymour and Patrick McGoohan.

Finding a ghost story

All this history has sparked the idea for a ghost story. With that in mind, Suzanne and I wait for the sun to go down and head out on a ghost walk through the alleys of Penzance. We want haunting scenery, not haunted. As in no ghost sightings, please.

We start our dark and spooky stroll through narrow alleys, passing townhomes where the warm glow of light spills from curtained windows. I imagine these same alleys three hundred years ago, and almost hear the fall of running footsteps, the quick knock on a door, and the whispers of men preparing to move loads of smuggled goods into the tunnels running beneath the town.

[image error][image error][image error][image error][image error][image error][image error][image error][image error][image error][image error][image error]Going on a ghost hunt

The next day we visit the Dolphin Inn, one of the oldest buildings in Penzance. History surrounds you as you approach the bar to order food and drink. The tavern has served thirsty customers since before 1585. Under its roof the English naval commander/privateer, John Hawkins recruited Cornishmen to fight the Spanish armada. It's said that this is where Sir Walter Raleigh smoked the first tobacco on English shores. The Dolphin Inn was a smugglers tavern, complete with peep holes in the walls and a trap door leading to a warren of smuggler’s tunnels under our feet.

The Dolphin Inn

We carry on with our walk and visit the ,Admiral Benbow Inn, another historical landmark. It’s been serving grog to the thirsty since 1695. We pull up a chair and sit down for a pint. In 1880, when Robert Louis Stevenson visited here, the inn was an illegal drinking den with a notorious reputation. Some of the inspiration for the classic book, ,Treasure Island, comes from here.

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The interior of the inn is a fascinating collection of maritime history. Ship figureheads, pulleys, ropes, lanterns—the room is stuffed full of nautical artifacts salvaged through the years. It's a place demanding exploration.

On our way out, we meet the owner/operator of the inn and talk smugglers, tunnels, and spirits, before he shares a ghost story. When he first moved to Penzance, he was approached by a local woman at the market. Penzance is a small town, so she knew he'd bought the Admiral Benbow Inn.

"Have you met the ghost," she asked.

Receiving his no, she describes how when she worked at the inn, she glimpsed the shadowy figure of a woman watching through a window.

The ghost, Arabella inhabited the inn during the early 1800s. She met a boy, fell in love, and then one day, he sailed away with the promise to return, but never did. Does Arabella still wait, peering through the curtains, watching for her man to return?

Now, with my first story percolating in my head, it's time to return to our hotel, the Longboat Inn. Time to find a place to eat, and plan our the next day's adventure.

[image error][image error][image error]The Longboat Inn—our home away for a few days

Cheers,

Carol

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Suzanne, Joan, Debbie and I are off, plodding through Cornwall like a herd of turtles on a thin log. Our target is Penzance, the most westerly town in Cornwall. Our GPS tells us it's about 265 miles (426 km) away. Five hours and nine minutes to be precise. After a leisurely breakfast at Joe's Cafe in Chertsey, we pack the car (four women with four sets of luggage) and hit the road. The first thing I do is try to palm off my navigator role onto Deb, but she is having none of it. Next stop, Penzance.

Summer driving in England has a few things in common with Canadian summer driving. Construction and traffic, but where we're headed, the roads are narrower and the drivers more aggresive. Or maybe it's just they know the roads, and driving on the left is old hat to them. My GPS and I are developing trust issues. We keep leaving the nice crowded two lane highways for the faster route - the narrow hedge row-lined lanes. Suzanne's knuckles are getting whiter. Sometimes you'd swear the driver's side mirror kisses the mirrors of passing cars.

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She's handling it though. So far she's only let out a few Bloody hells and Oi, move overs. As you can see, some of the roads we follow are a wee a bit narrow, especially when meeting cars or vans coming the other way.

Cornwall with its narrow roads and high hedges is beautiful and picturesque. I'm glad I'm not driving. We would still be sitting on the side of the road when the sun came up. Luckily, Suzanne is made of tougher stuff. She figures out how to duck and weave fast, but our five hour drive still turns into seven.

At last, Penzance and the Longboat Inn. Who's ready for a nice pint, or a cup of tea? After hauling our suitcases up the stairs, we're off to explore the lovely town of Penzance. We have three days here, so there's a lot to look forward to.

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Cheers,

Carol

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Right, I'm ready to start the walk about feet part of my adventure . . . A bit tired, kind of hungry, and maybe lacking the ability to focus. For me, nine or ten hours of flight time with no sleep is adding up to Huh? You want me to what? I never manage to sleep on a plane. Every noise, every bump makes my eyes pop open. Add to that, my mind is so full of plans, that shutting off is virtually impossible. By the time four-thirty a.m. Vancouver time (three-thirty p.m. London time) rolls around, I'm ready to roll.

Sort of.

It's breakfast and Air Canada is on it. The food trolley is rolling down the aisle. So many choices. A paper bag holding a croissant with a tiny carton of mystery flavour yogurt, or nothing. Yum. One small Vanilla yogurt coming right up. As my granddaughter says, you get what you get and you don't get upset (apparently dad quotes start young).

One instant coffee later and I'm perking up. I've got this. It's like working an evening shift with call and only getting called back to work three times. Right. That's when my travel partner, Suzanne declares she slept great. So not fair.

Landed. Time for customs. My passport won't scan and I have to speak with a customs officer. Bonus. Two seconds later, I'm through. Things are looking up. It's time to grab our rental car and find the hotel.

As far as transportation, I've hit the travel lottery. My companions are Australian, experts at driving on what for me is the wrong side of the road. Sure, Suzanne may be a wee bit rusty, but it's like riding a bike. Easy, right? Okay. Maybe not so easy, after all, she's now a Canadian, and it's been a while since she drove on the left side of the road. There's also the tiny issue that the rental car is a standard transmission with a wonky clutch. Nah, no worries. She's got this. If not, she'll fake it.

Me? I'll be supportive and encouraging, and . . . What? I'm the navigator? Right. I'm up for the challenge. Never mind everything is mirror image to my usual. I'll figure it out.

Suzanne takes a minute to adjust to the clutch, figure out directions, as in, take the round-about third, second, or first exit. Does the itty bitty laneway count as an exit? This time yes, next time no. You think that sounds confusing? Try doing it.

We're off. We flash a driver's licence at the gal in the exit booth and face our first round-about, the one leaving the parking lot of the rental car place. Wait. Turn left, not right. Oops. Back up. Damn that wonky clutch. Sorry, sorry. Wow, the English are so polite and friendly. Not a single raised middle finger or honk as drivers abort their turns into the lot, or swerve out of the way. I like it here.

Next stop, the Crown Hotel, Chertsey London. Time to meet our fellow travellers, Joan and Debbie. A little bit of real coffee and supper won't be so bad either.

So what three things did I learn my first day in London?

the english are polite the people I am about to spend the next three weeks with, are amazing salt water crocodiles are not only big, mean and aggressive, but also devious patient and wiley. Now I understand the Peter Pan song, Never Smile a Crocodile. Poor old Captain Hook never stood a chance.[image error][image error]

The conversation is starting to get a bit muddled, so it's off to sleep now. Day one was great. Maybe I should call my blog Walk about Feet - Oi, Oi, Oi, Eh?

Cheers,

Carol

[image error][image error][image error]My favourite things: a good glass of wine a long bike ride or hike being on the water on a floatie, kayak, or boat

and

,TRAVELI always wanted to travel—to see the world by foot, car, plane or bike.

I made plans:

A bike ride to Calgary?

It was on my list. In fact, my bestie and I even trained for it. We started out riding the hills on Dallas Road in Victoria, then worked our way up to riding from Victoria to Thetis Lake and back. It was a hot summer day, and I remember we were sweaty and grumpy by the time we got there. Of course, then we had to cycle home.

I know what you're thinking. Not exactly a marathon ride. To be honest, we would likely have turned around before we made it to Hope. That's okay. We went to Hawaii instead.

Not us!

I kept dreaming : a trip to Australia a month in Fiji and finally, a trip to Europe with friends when we finished nursing school

But, in the best romantic tradition, I met a boy, fell in love, got married, had kids, bought a house, and of course, worked. Yup. Life has a way of taking priority over day dreams.

England, Cornwall, Wales, and Ireland — It's time to explore:

I'm heading out on a three week girls' trip.

England, Cornwall, Wales, and Ireland are calling and I'm saying let's go!

While I'm away, I'm playing travel blogger. I'll let you in on the highs and the lows while I soak up the sights, the foods—there will be wine—and history.

I will also be writing some romantic short stories on the way: maybe a haunting in Penzance a mystery at Stonehenge a ghost story in London

With so many possibilities for adventure, I can't wait to start.

So stay tuned and I'll talk to you soon.

Cheers and bon voyage,

Carol

PS

I mustn't forget to bring my cossie!