This month's #HistFicThursdays have been all art-inspired, so I'm sticking with that theme! A couple of months ago, the Things to Inspire blog was about sketches . Today's is about finished pieces of artwork! Artwork has been an inspiration for millions of people across thousands of years. Just like a book, the finished product can (hopefully!) be an inspiration. Over the years, we've collected one or two pieces of old artworks, and these are a few... Religious artwork has always been used as an inspiration and, historically, this was how the majority of people interacted with biblical stories. This was a barn find - probably created for someone's own interest judging by the naive style of artwork. It looks like it might have been from a panelled wall at some point. I wonder what happened to the rest of the panels and what story they might show when they are all together... Of course, not all artworks are paintings! Here is a scrimshaw of the Battle of Flamborough
This week for #HistFicThursdays, I'm delighted to once again be teaming up with The Coffee Pot Book Club for author Catherine Meyrick's blog tour! Today, I'm sharing an excerpt from her fabulous book, Cold Blows the Wind!
First of all, let's meet the book...
Hobart Town 1878 – a vibrant town drawing people from every corner of the earth where, with confidence and a flair for storytelling, a person can be whoever he or she wants. Almost.
Ellen Thompson is young, vivacious and unmarried, with a six-month-old baby. Despite her fierce attachment to her family, boisterous and unashamed of their convict origins, Ellen dreams of marriage and disappearing into the ranks of the respectable. Then she meets Harry Woods.
Harry, newly arrived in Hobart Town from Western Australia, has come to help his aging father, ‘the Old Man of the Mountain’ who for more than twenty years has guided climbers on Mount Wellington. Harry sees in Ellen a chance to remake his life.
But, in Hobart Town, the past is never far away, never truly forgotten. When the past collides with Ellen’s dreams, she is forced to confront everything in life a woman fears most.
Based on a period in the lives of the author’s great-great-grandparents, Sarah Ellen Thompson and Henry Watkins Woods, Cold Blows the Wind is not a romance but it is a story of love – a mother’s love for her children, a woman’s love for her family and, those most troublesome loves of all, for the men in her life. It is a story of the enduring strength of the human spirit.
And here's an excerpt to whet your appetite:
The old man grabbed a tall wooden staff from beside the door. ‘Come along, Harry, I’ll show you to the top.’
He led the way at a leisurely pace, Harry beside him, answering the visitors’ stream of questions as they walked around the side of the cottage. They had come from Victoria and were enjoying every sight Tasmania had to offer.
The second young woman, fresh-faced and wearing a hat trimmed in a modest pink, asked, ‘How high would you say we are, Mr Woods?’
‘The mountain is four and a half thousand feet.’ The old man chuckled. ‘Not that I’ve measured her myself.’
‘It’s a wonder a hotel hasn’t been built up here,’ the younger climber said. ‘What you need is a proper road to bring people by carriage right to the Springs. You would have visitors in the hundreds all through the year.’
‘Ever been here in winter?’ The old man’s bushy eyebrows joined together as he frowned.
‘No, but with a decent road that wouldn’t be a problem.’
‘Snow two foot deep, cloud covering the mountain. Not much for these hundreds of visitors to see,’ the old man muttered.
The narrow path rose steeply, a thickly wooded gully on one side, a clear running stream on the other. Boulders and occasional logs lay across the path which, despite their skirts, the young women managed to clamber over. They passed a turf-roofed hut of stone some way above the Springs.
‘That’s the icehouse.’ The old man nodded towards the hut. ‘Ice is stored there in winter, packed tight so the swells in Hobart Town can have it in their drinks in summer.’
The young woman in the green beribboned hat caught up with the old man. ‘Can we see the Rocking Stone?’
‘It’s not far out of our way,’ he said.
‘I doubt there’s enough time,’ said the older climber.
‘We’ve come to see Hobart Town at its most beauteous,’ the younger man drawled.
Harry stared at him, judging him a man who had never done a day’s honest labour.
He felt the tug of effort on the muscles at the back of his thighs as the track narrowed and became rockier, the upright gum trees giving way to stunted eucalypts and windswept scrub. An ancient fall of rocks lay across the track, opening out the breathtaking view toward Hobart Town and the river. There was no sound of birdlife, only the rushing of the wind.
The track went higher, the climb harder going. Harry glanced back at the young women—they seemed to be taking it in their stride. Despite their pretty hats, both wore sturdy walking boots.
The old man halted, leaning on his staff. Harry saw the strain in his face, the laboured breathing. In the letter he had sent to Harry last December, he had said he was failing. It was clear it had not been a ploy to get him here. The visitors seemed not to notice the effort it took him.
‘The Ploughed Field,’ the old man announced as if the plain that stretched out before him was all his own work.
A plain of huge rocks heaped one on the other spread out. In places snow was still trapped in the deep crevices between the rocks, in others tufts of stunted grass struggled against the wind. The old man led the way as they skirted the rock field. Up high now and in the open, the chill wind was constant, whistling past them. Harry turned as the young woman in the plainer hat shrieked. She struggled to keep her skirts down as the wind ballooned them around her, giving him a pleasing view of the lace trimming on her drawers. He glanced towards his father who winked back at him.
The final ascent was steep, steeper even than the Fingerpost Track. Boulders of all sizes, grey, rust-coloured, speckled with lichen, covered the summit. Some stood tall, grouped together like sentinels, others were spread out across the plain. Stunted scrub grew between them, prostrate tea-trees, broom-like shrubs in orange and yellow, reds and whites, cushions of low-growing yellow and green shrubs. As if the height was not enough, there was a massive cairn of stones close packed at the top of the mountain, a flag post at its centre. Even the ladies climbed up and sat, staring out at the view. The sky was a clear blue out to the horizon. The light glittered on the river and its white beaches as it opened out to the south where it merged with the sea. To the north, the river wound like a broad silvery thread through rolling hills. And below lay Hobart Town—a delicate model set in the folds at the mountain’s foot.
Harry felt like an eagle in its eyrie—it was no wonder the old man had stayed on here. The troubles of the town, of the whole world, seemed so far away.
Now, let's meet the author:
When she is not writing, reading and researching, Catherine enjoys gardening, the cinema and music of all sorts from early music and classical to folk and country & western. And, not least, taking photos of the family cat to post on Instagram.
You can find Catherine on these links:
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Thank you so much for hosting Catherine Meyrick today. Much appreciated.
ReplyDeleteCathie xx
The Coffee Pot Book Club