Shakespeare's Sisters...

Oh to be in Stratford when September's here...

(With apologies to Robert Browning - and Shakespeare - of course)

I've just spent two days in  Shakespeare land with my favourite sisters - Diane and Elaine. Everything was perfect - from the white swans swimming on the Avon to the lovely guy who insisted on taking a photo of us all by the river. Stratford  understands tourists. The locals are proud of its history ( so they should be) and recognise the financial stability it brings - and thankfully no-one tried to sell me a Bard mug!  There were flowers everywhere - outside shops, cafes, restaurants, hotels and pubs - and everyone was smiling
Just one complaint - the railway station was a relic of another age.  If I was an American tourist, I'd have turned right round on Platform 3 and made my way home again. Come on England - we can do better than that...

Baby, look at me now...

This image of a baby in a gas mask really sums up, for me, the horrors of World War Two.  I took this photo
on Lancashire's Lytham Green recently during the Forties weekend where hundreds of people gathered  for a brilliantly sunny celebration of England.

Band music drifted across the grass as 'soldiers' and 'sailors'  strolled around with their glamorous girlfriends in tow, 'starlets' strutted in satin and seamed stockings whilst  a German officer peered out menacingly from
beneath his leather eye patch.

There were vintage cars, American and German armoured vehicles and  a mass of memorabilia that  had
everyone reaching into their hankies.  The baby, of course, was only a doll. Golly - fancy that!

Hot off the Press - it's 'Paraffin' Brown...

It's more than twenty years since the death of Guernsey's most infamous journalist, but I'm happy to report that he's still making headlines.

Nicknamed 'Paraffin' for  his fiery temper,  my father Harry Brown was featured this week in the Guernsey Press, along with the story of the 'Guernseyman' magazine he was determined to make his own.

Says writer Shaun Shackleton 'He was a 19-year-old returning home after the Occupation and he harboured a dream - to be a journalist.  So Harry Brown started his own magazine... We follow the story of 'Paraffin' Brown and his dream come true - the Guernseyman.'

Dad was never one to fight shy of controversy. 'Is divorce here too easy? Are islanders ignorant? Do local

lads prefer blondes? These were some of the tongue-in-cheek articles he wrote in an attempt to drag Guernsey into the twentieth century.

I suspect no-one took him too seriously. Not only was the war over, but he'd suffered his own personal tragedy - the loss of his 11-year-old brother -  and he needed a reason to carry on. After the pain and suffering,  he just wanted to make people smile.  As I browse through this week's articles in the Press, I feel sure that's exactly what he did.

So here's to the freedom of the press - and here's to a man who, in his own small way, made it possible.

Winning the Sex War...

'There is something delightfully feminine about a wife who  spends a little more than her

husband's actual income...'

This brilliant quote comes from   a 1930's copy of Woman's Own  I found at an antiques fair in York this weekend. In his article ' praising women's faults,' Guy Trent explains: 'We admire your feminine tantrums,  your naughty unreasonableness, your funny little vanities...but most of all we love you for your dependence on us.'  Victoria Beckham - please take note!

I'm addicted to vintage women's magazines. They catalogue social history and the changing roles of the sexes over the years. Remember the bra burners of the swinging  sixties? They'll be in their sixties themselves by now taking Ibruprofen for back pain and  wondering just what they have achieved.

By the fifties 'Picture Post' was championing motor cycle sport for women whilst still telling us to don our best hats for Ascot. And in 1985 Peugeot were urging women to buy their very own sportscar -  only £5,995 on the road...

But back to that Woman's Own.   'Now it's YOUR turn'  it finishes   'to tell us what you feel about the men. Five shillings each for the best letters and  only one fault at a time please.'     You couldn't make it up...

Here's to the next generation of women - says 'thoroughly modern Millie...'

A summer Tale..

                My favourite place to write is in my own garden-who says we haven't had a summer?

                        And summer wouldn't be summer without some Guernsey photos, too...

Can anyone spot the Guernsey cows?

Parlez-vous Guernsey French?

When I was small my grandparents would talk to each other in Guernsey French whenever there was something they didn't want me or my sisters to hear.  The result? I learnt quite few words for myself, especially those concerning chocolate or treats!  So I was delighted recently to discover in a second-hand bookshop a glossary of 1,000 'Gernesies' words by Eric Fellowes Lukis.  'An Outline of the Franco-Norman Dialect of Gernsey' (Revised Edition 1985)  also charts the fascinating history of this wonderful language.

Says the author in the foreword 'It is almost a miracle that a language existing only as a spoken dialect for nearly a thousand years and continually exposed to French influence, could have retained so much of its ancient heritage.'

Whilst searching through the book I have found several fascinating words  like 'charlotaer'  which means 'pamper' and gavlottaer' - 'to lounge about.'  There's the devilish 'pimperluche', a perfect word for a 'wasp' and the unlikely-sounding 'babiloubuene' which means, apparently, indiscretion.

Controversially, the author has built up a case for the revised spelling of the language insisting that 'the French spelling adopted in the 19th century cannot represent accurately the strange un-French sound of Gernesies.'

I think I might I agree with that  - it was mostly Double Dutch to me...

Bowled over...

I always knew that Guernsey people were friendly, but top marks go to the Island Bowl at St Sampsons for going that little bit further...

When my daughter, Chloe, and her husband Phil discovered their ferry back to England was delayed by ten hours they were struggling to entertain eighteen-month-old toddler Millie Grace.

Having checked out of their apartment they headed for the bowling alley where staff took pity on their plight.

'As soon as they realised we had nowhere to go,' says Chloe, 'they switched the flat screen tv on to cartoons and told us to make ourselves at home. Nothing was too much trouble. It was great not being pushed out when we'd finished eating and we reckon they all deserve a medal.'

I'd love to think that would happen in England - but somewhow I wonder. Three cheers for Island Bowl...

A novel way to lose weight...

I came back from Guernsey this year having managed to lose weight, despite the consumption of cream teas and other local delicacies...

The secret? The Constitution Steps. One of the oldest stone flights on the island, these aptly-named steps are akin to climbing Mount Everest (by my standards, anyway) and are better than any regular workout at the gym.
Our lovely apartments, La Madeleine, stood at the top of a continental-style terrace overlooking the harbour. According to the brochure there are several different paths to reach the apartments. However, it adds, 'Constitution Steps are not recommended.' Who could refuse such a challenge?
Every morning my intrepid husband braved the 150-something steps down to the town to buy a newspaper, returning, slightly red-faced, several minutes later. Not to be beaten I then emerged to 'skip' downwards and climb my way (very slowly at first) back up again. Below is the view of the harbour from half-way up.

Most people stop at this point, ostensibly to admire the scenery, whilst actually attempting to regain their breath.
By the end of the ten-day holiday, I had the whole thing down to a fine art and felt
fitter and, dare I say, slimmer, than when I arrived. But then I do like telling stories - they're so much more fun than the truth...

The Secret of the Secret Garden

I have just read Kate Morton's The Forgotten Garden, an intriguing book that follows the life of a young English girl abandoned on a ship bound for Australia at the turn of the century. It reminds me of my favourite children's story, The Secret Garden, written exactly a hundred years ago by Frances Hodgson Burnett. Although she wrote mainly for adults, the Victorian author captured the hearts of children the world over with this delightful tale.

The author's own secret was the tragic death of her 16-year-old son, a loss from which she never fully recovered. Written in his memory, the story provides the happy ending that she herself was denied. Born in Manchester, the family moved to the United States when she was a teenager and she spent much of her life travelling between the two countries. She was much criticised in the press for being away from her family and this affected her deeply when her son died of consumption.

The book fell out of favour until the 1960s when a new generation of children, and adults, took it to their hearts again.

I captured this shot in Guernsey, an island famous for its glorious gardens. What better place to read - and write?