Liz Fenwick's Blog

The next gloriously uplifting, escapist, historical read from ‘the queen of the contemporary Cornish novel’ (Guardian)

As one of the Navy’s most skilled mapmakers, Merry knows the very lives of men far away depend on her work in the War Office.

But when a family crisis draws her back to her beloved Cornwall, Merry finds herself working alongside an enigmatic American officer on secret operations spanning the rugged coasts of Cornwall and Brittany which she knows so well.

But not everything is as clear as the maps she draws. As rumours and suspicion swirl around her family, Merry is increasingly drawn to Jake, despite the defences she’s built around her heart. It’s a dangerous time to fall in love when there is everything to lose as the tides of war are rising…

The award-winning author Liz Fenwick returns with a glorious, sweeping novel full of intrigue and passion.

Check out the exclusive edition of The Secret Shore (pictured here) by clicking here.

‘Wonderfully evocative’ Judy Finnigan

‘An absolute delight!’ Hazel Gaynor

‘Wonderful escapism’ Tracy Rees

’A lovely story’ Erica James

‘Gloriously rich’ Rachel Hore

‘Sublime storytelling’ Cathy Bramley

‘Emotional’ Kate Ryder

A forgotten house and a secret hidden for a century… 

‘Wonderfully evocative’ Judy Finnigan
‘Full of delicious atmosphere and intrigue’ Hazel Gaynor
‘Wonderful escapism’ Tracy Rees
‘A lovely story’ Erica James
‘Gloriously rich’ Rachel Hore
‘Compellingly atmospheric’ Kate Ryder

Following the breakdown of her marriage, Theo has bought a tumbledown cottage on the banks of the river Tamar which divides Cornwall and Devon. The peace and tranquillity of Boatman’s Cottage, nestled by the water, is just what she needs to heal.

Yet soon after her arrival, Theo discovers a stash of hidden letters tied with a ribbon, untouched for more than a century. The letters – sent from the battlefields of France during WW1 – tell of a young servant from the nearby manor house, Abbotswood, and his love for a woman he was destined to lose.

As she begins to bring Boatman’s Cottage and its gardens back to life, Theo pieces together a story of star-crossed lovers played out against the river, while finding her own new path to happiness.

The River Between Us beautifully explores the mystery and secrets of a long-forgotten love affair, and will be loved by fans of Kate Morton.

Praise for The River Between Us:

‘Wonderfully evocative’ Judy Finnigan

‘Full of delicious atmosphere and intrigue, and with a compelling mystery flowing through its pages … an absolute delight!’ Hazel Gaynor

‘Wonderful escapism … a relaxing, evocative read’ Tracy Rees

‘A lovely story that blends the past and the present beautifully’ Erica James

‘I enjoyed sinking into this gloriously rich novel, so laced with secrets. What a vivid cast of characters! I loved the gorgeous setting of the river Tamar’ Rachel Hore

‘A compellingly atmospheric and emotional roller-coaster of a read’ Kate Ryder

‘Captures the magical atmosphere of Devon and Cornwall. And what a wonderful journey of discovery’ Rosanna Ley

‘Spanning generations, with a beautiful love story and unearthed secrets about ancestry at its core, this book is just what the world needs right now’ Louise Beech

‘When I finished it I had THAT feeling when you’ve been away to a lovely place for a while and don’t want to come back’ Nicola Cornick

To celebrate the publication of The Path to the Sea I’ve asked some authors about their turning points. Today  Vikki Patis talks about her clear fork in the road moment…


This topic is always a favourite of mine. I’m one of those people who has come across a very clear fork in the road, and I’ve had to make a decision which would ultimately impact my life in a huge way. The first and most important such occurrence is a bit dark, so please bear with me.


I had what one might politely call a rubbish childhood. My father was physically abusive, and I grew up in a very negative and at times dangerous environment. When I was 18, my father died, and I suddenly had this explosion of freedom. What was I going to do with it? Like many 18 year olds, I had a wobble, but perhaps unsurprisingly, that wobble ended up with me spending a night in a police cell. Not my proudest moment, but I felt that that was my destiny – to continue along the path my parents had set for me. To continue in anger, aggression, anxiety. In the morning, I was interviewed by a police officer, who went through the formalities and, thankfully, let me off without charge. When he switched off the tape, he turned to me and said, ‘Don’t let your past, or your family, dictate your future.’ I’ll never forget those words. I decided there and then, at 18 years old, scared, exhausted, confused, to follow his advice.


And so I went to college to finish my A levels, then onto university to study policing and then criminology. I moved far away from home and built a life for myself elsewhere, with new friends and new experiences. It wasn’t easy – there was a lot of time spent alone, with very little money, but I got through it. And I, for the most part, loved it. I worked to become someone else, someone different. I worked to have a life worth living.


The path not taken was the easiest path. The path with no education, no career, no release from my past. That path would have seen me still working in a supermarket, still caught up in the dramas of my fragile childhood friendships, still living with my mum and siblings and arguing all the time. That path would have seen me continue to drink heavily just to escape. That path would have, quite possibly, seen me in an early grave like my father, whose death I believe was caused by his own demons poisoning him from within, at least in part.


The path I chose was hard, and it was a long one. Now, five years after I graduated from university, I can finally look back and say that I’ve made it. I’m married, with a career in regulatory affairs, and I’m an author. Being an author was always my dream. Books were one of my escapes when I was young; I could run away from the violence and depression by jumping into a book. Now, writing books is my release. I use it as a kind of therapy, to write about what happened to me in the past, and to move through it. It’s taken years for me to build some semblance of a relationship with my remaining family members, and it is only recently that I decided that I needed to do so on my own terms.

The beginning of my life may have been bad, but I’m determined to have a good middle and end. We are the sum of our experiences, but we shouldn’t let our past dictate our future. A different path is out there, you just have to find it.

Here’s a bit about Vikki’s latest book….

You’re hiding a secret that only she can see.

Her name is Beth. She came into my life when I needed her the most. We lead very different lives, but she’s the only person who understands me.

She was the only other witness to the terrible accident on the street between our homes. The only person who saw the cracks in my perfect life before I had the chance to cover them up.

It’s been so long since I’ve had a friend. Someone to talk to, to listen to, to laugh and dream with.

Beth would never do anything to hurt me.

She only wants what’s best for me, for my marriage.

Doesn’t she?

You can find  more from Vikki on her website https://vikkipatiswrites.wordpress.com

And her books here:

The Diary: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Diary-completely-addictive-psychological-thriller-ebook/dp/B07GWBDDXS/
The Girl Across the Street: https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B07L8H8KMG

To celebrate the publication of The Path to the Sea I’ve asked some authors about their turning points. Today John Jackson talks about his change of course…

I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,

And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,

And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,

And a grey mist on the sea’s face and a grey dawn breaking.

(John Masefield – Sea Fever)

All of us have to choose a different path, or, as we say at sea, Change Course as some stage. When I left school I worked in a Bank for a year and hated it. All of that money, and none of it mine!

I had to fine something else and got the idea of going to sea. My grandfather had been at sea, going sealing in the Antarctic, and taking a barquentine from Mauritius to Australia and back. My Grandmother’s honeymoon was on board that ship.

Two months later in January 1996 I found myself going to sea as a cadet with a company called Lamport & Holt Line, on the first of many trips down to South America. I remember being paid the marvellous sum of 15 guineas a month, plus 3/2p an hour overtime! We used to work every hour God sent for that money.

Going to sea in those days really was a great career. South America’s east coast was alive! We used to get occasional time off, and we could go exploring on the local buses. We were all very much footloose and fancy free, and yes, it’s true – we did all have a girl in every port. Who knows, at some stage in the future I may even write about it. The problem is, who would believe the stories!

MV Ronsard, Liverpool, 1967ish

Time passes, a change of company or two, and I was sailing on the RFA Bacchus, a naval stores freighter. We had a party on board one night in Chatham, and who came on board with a gaggle of girls from the local hospital, but Pamela. We are still together forty-five years later.

RFA Bacchus, in Valetta, Malta

Some changes of course are forced on us. Not long after getting married, I broke my leg playing rugby. I was forced to leave ships flying the British flag and went to work for the Germans. They didn’t require such stringent health checks. Pamela came away with me, and, on a later ship, DD1. As well.

MV City of Watterscheid, 1978

The last major change of course took us to York, where we life in a very busy and happy retirement. Coming here was the first time in our lives when we could change course solely to please ourselves. Coming here led me to start writing, and brought me into a whole new range of friends, With their support, help and encouragement, I picked up my pen, and Heart of Stone, my first novel, was published at the end of 2017.

John Masefield absolutely got it right with Sea Fever and Cargoes, I lived and worked through some of the very best times to be at sea.

Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack,

Butting through the Channel in the mad March days,

With a cargo of Tyne coal,

Road-rails, pig-lead,

Firewood, ironware, and cheap tin trays.

John’s latest book…

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Heart-Stone-John-Jackson-ebook/dp/B074L68VL3

Dublin, 1730

When young and beautiful Mary Molesworth is forced to marry Robert Rochfort, widowed heir to the earldom of Belfield, she finds that her idea of love is not returned. Jealous, cruel and manipulative, Robert ignores her after she has provided him with a male heir, preferring to spend his nights with his mistress. Power-hungry, Robert builds up a reputation that sees him reach for the highest positions in Ireland.

Caught in an unhappy marriage, Mary begins to grow closer to Robert’s younger brother, Arthur. Acknowledging their love for each other, they will risk everything to be together. But Robert’s revenge threatens their lives and tears them apart.

Will Mary and Arthur find a way to escape Robert’s clutches?

Based on real events, Heart of Stone is a tale of power, jealousy, imprisonment, and love, set in 1740s Ireland.

Sometimes going home is just the beginning…

Boskenna, the beautiful, imposing house standing on the Cornish cliffs, means something different to each of the Trewin women.

For Joan, as a glamorous young wife in the 1960s, it was a paradise where she and her husband could entertain and escape a world where no one was quite what they seemed – a world that would ultimately cost their marriage and end in tragedy.

Diana, her daughter, still dreams of her childhood there – the endless blue skies and wide lawns, book-filled rooms and parties, the sound of the sea at the end of the coastal path – even though the family she adored was shattered there.

And for the youngest, broken-hearted Lottie, heading home in the August traffic, returning to Boskenna is a welcome escape from a life gone wrong in London, but will mean facing a past she’d hoped to forget.

As the three women gather in Boskenna for a final time, the secrets hidden within the beautiful old house will be revealed in a summer that will leave them changed for ever.

Following on from my post about grief, I wanted to talk about dancing. In my growing up years dancing was everywhere. It was part of my life and my culture as an Irish American. Etched in my brain, in my wiring, are memories of my cousins playing the fiddle and the accordion in the kitchen with table pushed back while the rest of us danced. It was my summer in Ireland at the age of thirteen studying at Gormanston College when in mid-spin I was told I couldn’t be an American and know how to spin like that. It was all the Sacred Hearts’ St Patrick’s Day dances doing the Siege of Ennis. It was Saturday nights watching Lawrence Welk on the TV with my great uncle and aunt. It was in my parents love of dancing. My God could they dance and dance so well together. It was me taking ballroom dancing with a friend our senior year of high school. I loved dancing.

I don’t often dance these days. I miss it. When the kids were small, and I was stressed I would put on one of two songs…Dean Martin’s That’s Amore or Mambo Number Five and I would dance around the kitchen with them until the stress was gone and we were all laughing.

So when I was dancing the other day with the ghost of my father it was also happy. Just days after Dad died we were celebrating the life of another friend of theirs. She loved music and had a grand piano in her apartment. One of her daughters caught this moment when music and dancing took the grief away or may not away but lifted it.

May you have dancing…..

IMG_2415

Yesterday morning I found myself making chicken soup in the kitchen crying. Grief had come to visit. I had pressed play on the music system and Ol’ Blue was belting out New York, New York. Not an emotional song you would think. But it was the song at my wedding twenty-seven years ago that I had danced with my father. It was also the last dance I had with him just over two years ago when we celebrated my twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.

At 10:30am I danced in the kitchen with him again. I hope the neighbours didn’t see me dancing alone, crying my eyes out clutching a wooden spoon. In the normal course of things, I wouldn’t allow myself the time to indulge (interesting word choice) in such bouts of grief. But yesterday was raw – unavoidable. I hadn’t realised why because it was not the anniversary of Dad’s death…or any of those special days when you are prepared for the road bumps grief sets in front of you.

Yesterday I gave a talk at the St Ives September Festival and it corresponded with me doing the same thing two years ago. I knew then that my father was dying as I’d known when he made that last trip to Cornwall just weeks before. That day I had stood in front of a room full of people and delivered some sort of talk. One person in the audience knew the turmoil within me and bless her she sat in the front and almost held my hand although I had never met her in person before that talk.

Just days after that on Friday, I collected my husband from the train station and he told me he’d been made redundant. In the long run this has proved to be a gift but at the time my world wobbled. I was scheduled to fly to my parents in Florida on the Monday. I was torn. Did I stay in the UK and support my husband or fly to the US and support my parents (I’m an only child). My husband pushed me out the door and thank God he did. Dad was gone days later on the 30thof September.

I still haven’t allowed myself to grieve properly. Even while sitting at his bedside in his last hours I was working (I was on deadline for A Cornish Christmas Carol and he was so proud of my work. The Returning Tide was the last book he read but he didn’t finish it. I knew then when he no longer had the energy to read that his time on this earth was coming to a close. If you’ve read that book the last scene he read was the one where Lara struggles to say goodbye to Grandie). When I returned to the UK a few weeks later my children and husband had already been through the sharp side of their grief and I hadn’t even begun because Mum had needed me, and I still had a deadline.

I was back down in Cornwall working on the novella and the news came through that my agent had died. The novella was due the next day. Carole, bless her, had sat on my shoulder and told me I was a professional. I delivered on time. Then I had another book to write, another deadline to meet, someone’s hand to hold….

So now nearly two years on I am doing the slow dance of grief, still struck by how piercing the pain can be. I am good at powering on, looking after others and shoving myself to the back of the queue. I know the grief never ends but changes and evolves. I tried to explain this yesterday. I didn’t cry for my father. My father had the best of lives. I cried for me…I think I may need to do more of that.

One Cornish Summer has been out in paperback for a month. Thank you to all who have read it! (if you haven’t it’s currently only .99p for the ebook on various outlets Amazon UK,  Kobo, iBooks).

I have loved the Cornish memories shared by my generous fellow authors and the many memories shared by others with the hashtag #OneCornishSummer on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram…later today there will be a draw to select a winner to receive a copy of the book and the delicious Cornish Rock Samphire gin from Curio…

Today the final memory is  a snapshot. The wonderful Amanda Jennings is under deadline and words need to go elsewhere. However this picture to me speaks of my memories of my kids…every summer here in Cornwall rain or shine on we were on a beach, in a rock pool….simple, perfect, real, Cornwall.

Amanda’s latest book, The Cliff House, is set in Cornwall…and I loved it!

Cornwall, summer of 1986.

The Davenports, with their fast cars and glamorous clothes, living the dream in a breathtaking house overlooking the sea.

If only… thinks sixteen-year-old Tamsyn, her binoculars trained on the perfect family in their perfect home.

If only her life was as perfect as theirs.

If only Edie Davenport would be her friend.

If only she lived at The Cliff House…

Amanda Jennings weaves a haunting tale of obsession, loss and longing, set against the brooding North Cornish coastline, destined to stay with readers long after the final page is turned.

You can buy it here.

Thank you for following along with all these evocative memories of Cornish summers. And if you need a Cornish fix check out the hash tag #OneCornishSummer or dive into one of my books. xx

To celebrate the paperback publication of One Cornish Summer Helena Fairfax tells us about her Cornish holiday…

One Cornish Winter

For someone who lives in the frozen north (that’s in West Yorkshire, to those in the south), to us, going down to Cornwall at Christmas is like going away for the summer. We’ve travelled to Cornwall at this time of year several times now, and I’m always amazed at how beautiful the weather can be in winter. It’s not bikini-weather – we are still in England, after all, albeit at the southernmost point – but bear in mind I live just a few miles from Damart, the home of thermal longjohns, and you’ll know how incredible it is to me to be able to walk on a beach on Boxing Day in the sunshine, and without even a vest. Without even a coat, some years, and one glorious winter, just in a t-shirt.

 

It’s a long drive for us from our house by the moors – around seven or eight hours – but the early start, in the cold and dark, after a warming breakfast of porridge and tea, is all part of the adventure. It’s exciting to know we’ll end the day watching the sun set over the sea, on one of many the glorious stretches of Cornish coastline. There are many parts of the coast I love, but I think my two favourites have to be Crantock beach and nearby Holywell Bay.  Holywell will be familiar to many people now because it’s the setting for a lot of the scenes in Poldark. Having been there so often, I can see why they chose it. It’s the perfect backdrop for scenes of drama and romance. I love Crantock beach particularly, not just because of the gorgeous skyline and the wonderful dunes, but because our dog is allowed to run free on it at any time of the year. On Christmas Day, this is where we head as soon as we’ve had breakfast. While everyone else is still at home opening presents, the long stretch of beach is generally deserted. Watching our dog run wild towards the sea is the perfect Christmas present. She absolutely loves it, and spends the whole day delirious with joy.

August is the perfect time to read Liz’s new release, One Cornish Summer. My personal favourite will always be Liz’s A Cornish Christmas Carol. For this northerner, Cornwall will always be the place for a special winter.

Helena Fairfax’s own summer release is a feel good, happy romance, set in a hotel in the Lake District. Here is the blurb:

A quaint old hotel by a lake – the Cross Hotel seems like the perfect place for a relaxing summer, and when Felicity Everdene arrives in her old banger of a car, she’s looking forward to a quiet break from working in her father’s global hotel chain. A few weeks hiking and swimming should restore her. But then Felicity meets the hotel’s owner, Patrick Cross…

Patrick doesn’t know the first thing about running a hotel, but his father has left him the family business in his will, and now Patrick has to take charge, or the staff will lose their jobs. With a missing barmaid, a grumpy chef, and the hotel losing money, the arrival of Felicity Everdene from the notorious Everdene family only adds to Patrick’s troubles…

‘A delightful summer read…the story fills you with sunshine.’ Jo at Jaffa Reads Too.

Felicity at the Cross Hotelis available on Amazon as a paperback and in Kindle format. http://mybook.to/FelicityCH

 

Helena’s Social links

Website: www.helenafairfax.com

Facebookhttps://www.facebook.com/HelenaFairfax/

Twitterhttps://twitter.com/HelenaFairfax

Instagram https://www.instagram.com/helenafairfax/

Subscribe to Helena’s newsletter for book related news, odd photos, and the occasional free stuff http://eepurl.com/bRQtsT

Liz here…I’d also love to see and hear about your Cornish Summer memories. If you use the hashtag #OneCornishSummer  and tag me on Facebook, Twitter (@liz_fenwick) or Instagram  (@liz_fenwick) you’ll be in with a chance to win a copy and a bottle of Curio Rock Samphire Gin. (by joining the giveaway you confirm you are over 18). Winner will selected on 12/8/2018.

One Cornish Summer and gin…

To celebrate the paperback publication of One Cornish Summer Gilli Allan tells us about her Cornish holiday…

What Cornwall Means to Me

I can’t think about Cornwall without remembering my mum. Give her a bucket and spade and a stretch of sand ideally with a stream running across it, and she was off.  Vast sand-castles, and complicated waterworks, would soon emerge.  We all joined in, but she was the enthusiast.

My memories of our Cornish family holidays have been greatly enhanced by my father’s photographs. He took colour transparencies. Mounted in glass they were looked at once or twice via a projector, but then they were put away never to be seen again. Since his death nine years ago, I’ve been able to copy the majority of these pictures and transfer them to the computer, opening a window onto my childhood.

Buying our first car was the catalyst that began our yearly visits to Cornwall.  Until then holidays were taken closer to home, to Kent Coast resorts we could travel to easily by coach or train. On one memorable occasion my dad even hired a car but it turned out to be a bit of an old banger, threatening to stall in disgruntlement whenever faced with a hill. The tribulations of our journey to Dymchurch were not improved by my mother. She may well have been an impressive civil engineer, but she was a poor map reader. We got lost, arriving instead in Folkestone.

I was eight, my sister twelve and my brother four when the second-hand Wolsely arrived and the family summer holidays in Cornwall began. I can still remember the leathery smell of that car, and the whine of the windscreen wipers during those interminable drives. My brother was always car sick multiple times, the map-reader’s skills still fell short of the bad-tempered driver’s expectations. Despite this, the blue and gold idyll of Cornwall remained an irresistible draw, beckoning us back year after year.  We would always stay on a farm in those days, offering us suburban children further unfamiliar sights, sounds and experiences.

I loved Cornwall then, I love it still, even though the tiny fishing ports and seaside hamlets have changed from working villages to more sprawling conurbations, more focused on the holiday trade than the locals. I remember Mevagissey and Polperro and Padstow when they were truly quaint and quirky and unselfconscious – when the fishing industry was still a vibrant force. I remember when there was still a cattle market in Wadebridge – always a good alternative option for a wet Wednesday (or whatever day of the week it was held!).

When my son was very small we didn’t take many holidays and certainly not to anywhere as far flung as Cornwall! But when Tom was five my mother booked a house share for us all on the western headland of Treyarnon Bay. ‘Us’ constituted her and my father, me and my husband, and Tom. Also due to accompany us was my mother’s mother – my beloved Nan – whose own forebears were Cornish, according to family legend.

But my mum died suddenly and entirely unexpectedly three months before the start of our holiday. We still went, but it was strange. My father drove too fast around the narrow lanes as if he had a death wish.  My memory of my Nan was a silent, chain-smoking presence, her face screwed up and staring from the huge windows that looked out onto the wonderful view. My husband and I tried to make everything as fun and normal as possible for Tom.  We went for walks, went beach-combing for wood for the open fire, and I made a huge and elaborate sandcastle.

We have continued to go to Cornwall, but far more infrequently than in my own childhood. But I have never tired of cliffs walks and the crashing surf. The implausible emerald and violet water in Kynance Cove is burned into my memory from the first time I saw it, as is the romantic charm of Helford.  The majesty of Bedruthan steps never fails to take my breath away, nor the appeal of a windswept yomp over heather and rocky outcrops to the top of Rough Tor.

But the image that always comes first when I think of Cornwall is of those early childhood holidays and my mum building sandcastles.

Known as Nell, wife and mother, Eleanor fears change, but it is forced upon her by her manipulative husband, Trevor. Finding herself in a new world of flirtation and casual infidelity, her principles are undermined and she’s tempted. Should she emulate the behaviour of her new friends or stick with the safe and familiar?

But everything Nell has accepted at face value has a dark side.  Everyone – even her nearest and dearest – has been lying. She’s even deceived herself. The presentiment of disaster, first felt as a tremor at the start of the story, rumbles into a full-blown earthquake. When the dust settles, nothing is as it previously seemed. And when an unlikely love blossoms from the wreckage of her life, she believes it is doomed.

The future, for the woman who feared change, is irrevocably altered. But has she been broken, or has she transformed herself?

Here’s the book link

Gilli Allan started to write in childhood, a hobby only abandoned when real life supplanted the fiction. Gilli didn’t go to Oxford or Cambridge but, after just enough exam passes to squeak in, she attended Croydon Art College.

She didn’t work on any of the broadsheets, in publishing or television. Instead she was a shop assistant, a beauty consultant and a barmaid before landing her dream job as an illustrator in advertising. It was only when she was at home with her young son that Gilli began writing seriously. Her first two novels were quickly published, but when her publisher ceased to trade, Gilli went independent.

Over the years, Gilli has been a school governor, a contributor to local newspapers, and a driving force behind the community shop in her Gloucestershire village.  Still a keen artist, she designs Christmas cards and has done some book illustration. Her novels – TORN, LIFE CLASS and FLY OR FALL are now published by Accent Press. All three have won a Chill With a Book Award.

Liz here…I’d also love to see and hear about your Cornish Summer memories. If you use the hashtag #OneCornishSummer  and tag me on Facebook, Twitter(@liz_fenwick)or Instagram  (@liz_fenwick)you’ll be in with a chance to win a copy and a bottle of Curio Rock Samphire Gin. (by joining the giveaway you confirm you are over 18). Winner will selected on 12/8/2018.

One Cornish Summer and gin…