Born in Lancashire, I've been fortunate enough to live in the Lake District and Cornwall.
I now live in a small mountain village in Spain.

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The Olive Harvest
We built our house on a plot of land which already had an olive grove on it. There were 26 trees, somewhat neglected, and in dire need of some TLC. How old they are I have no idea, but some are more productive than others, and all a lot healthier now. It is a common misconception that there are two types of olive: green and black. In fact there is only one. If you want them for the table you pick them while they are still green and unripe. You then have to reduce the acidity by steeping them in spring water, changing this water every day for about 30 days. After that you can pack them in jars of brine, perhaps flavoured by herbs or anchovies and leave for some time before eating to be sure they have softened and lost enough of their acidity.

We don't do any of that as it is far too much hassle. We pick them when they are black and shiny and ripe, for oil.  The picking usually takes place some time between the end of November and early January, and the olives have to be delivered the same day they are picked in order to qualify for the extra virgin label. Once all the trees are stripped of fruit, they have to be pruned.  Each trunk splits into three and the upward springing branches, known as cocks, have to be removed so that air can reach the centre of the tree. All the brash has to be burned as olive leaves do not rot down and can cause disease. Winter is the only time of year we can hold a bonfire in Spain. Even then we must get a license from the town hall and the guardia locale often call to inspect. After that we pray for spring rain and lots of blossom to set next year's crop.

To read about our first harvest visit my newsletter page.

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Early Days

I was born in Oswaldtwistle, a small mill town in Lancashire, famous for James Hargreaves and his spinning jenny.  My mother was a weaver before she married, as was her mother before her.  They could lip-read and would mee-maw silently to each other as they had learned to do in the weaving shed above the clatter of the looms.
 

My father was a shoe retailer and repairer and I was brought up behind the shop.  I still remember my first pair of clogs which he made for me.  They were green leather with a picture of Mickey Mouse picked out in brass nails on the wooden soles.  I remember once, when I was in the infants, not being allowed to dance around the maypole because I'd forgotten to bring my plimsoles and the teacher wouldn't let me dance in my clogs.

We didn't have much money and rarely managed a meal without being interrupted by the shop door bell during the long hours the shop was open.  Yet we were a close family and always seemed to be happy and content with our lot.  Once a year we'd close the shop and go off on holiday for a week to Scotland or North Wales.  It took us all year to save up for it, but even if we'd stayed at home there would have been no trade.  The cotton towns were empty and silent during these wakes weeks.

I attended Hippings Methodist Primary School,  for some reason often called Mount Pleasant.  Our headmaster was a Mr Crawshaw, whom I remember with great affection. He was a kind, jolly man with a string of bad jokes, always complaining about the hair in his eyes when he was bald as a coot. When the boys misbehaved he would take them off to supposedly give them the cane, but never actually used it on any of them.  A lovely man.

I then went to Darwen Technical School and loved every minute of it.  My English teacher Mr Peters inspired me to read the kind of books I'd never have tried of my own volition, introducing me to Austen, Thomas Hardy and  Shakespeare, among others.  He also taught me to love history because of his own genuine enthusiasm. I owe him a great debt.  He heard me once talking on Radio Blackburn and contacted me to see if I really was the girl he remembered.  He was thrilled to hear I'd got published. I sent him a copy of one of my books, and it was like sending it in to be marked. I fully expected to get a B-.

Writing:
I always dreamed of becoming a writer but this was considered rather an exotic ambition so my parents encouraged me to 'get an education' first.  No one in my family had ever had one before, so I was elected to blaze the trail.  I attended Edge Hill Training College in Ormskirk, and worked as a primary teacher for a number of years.  I married David in 1969 and we moved to the Lake District with our two daughters but I still dreamed of becoming a writer.

I tried anything and everything.  Short stories, serials, a children’s novel, picture scripts and a couple of Mills & Boon contemporaries, although I gained more rejection slips than cheques.  The aim was to send material out faster than it came back, which wasn't easy.  We had a brilliant postal service and all the rejections would come bouncing back with remarkable speed.  But at last the day came when I sold my first short story to D.C.Thompson.  It was a red letter day indeed. That was also the name of the magazine, now defunct.

Following this breakthrough I seemed to develop the knack, or my luck changed, for I went on to sell many more stories to My Weekly, People’s Friend, and My Story magazine.  With renewed confidence I tried again for Mills & Boon, this time with a historical, Madeiran Legacy, which was accepted.  (reprinted as Wine and Roses by Severn House)  I wrote four more of these and only then did I have sufficient confidence to try for the mainstream fiction market, selling Luckpenny Land to Hodder & Stoughton in 1993.

Telegraph Article on Ex-pats

Secret Spain

Interview - Levante Lifestyle   Nov 2006

Interview with Euro Weekly (pdf file)

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