It’s entirely appropriate, since they’re only a couple of miles away from Totleigh Barton,  where the Arvon Foundation run residential courses for budding writers. Ah, those photos bring back happy memories…

No, those aren’t Roman boots – they’re Doc Martens.  And what’s below isn’t the Roman Fortress either.  Tho’ I guess it might include some of the original stone.

Things have changed a little in the last 1900 years.  It’s clear from the map I photographed last summer (well it is to me, but I fear the picture may come out a bit blurry) that the YAC will be walking much further than the original garrison would have needed to go. The walls reach way beyond the original Roman fort, so the modern patrol will be defending the local civilians as well.

Weather and blisters permitting, they’ll enjoy some fine views of a very lovely city. And, with luck, raise some cash for a good cause. There’s more info. here, along with the chance to sponsor them.

I shall not reveal which – if any – of these activities has been going on at Downie Towers, lest the editor should read it, but it is safe to say that no thriller will be appearing any day soon. Meanwhile, walking is supposed to be good for getting the creative juices flowing, and what better place to walk than to one of these?

‘Viewpoint only’ is perhaps a warning to anyone who might be expecting to see… well, something that looks Roman. This is what’s actually up there:

Yep, the usual shot of grass with lumps underneath. And it takes quite a lot of walking around to find a view that impressive. This is all that remains of the Roman fortlet at Martinhoe, on the north coast of Exmoor – and a bleak spot it is, even on a relatively mild January day.

It’s commonly thought that men were stationed there not to keep an eye on the Devonians, but on the Silures, the rebellious tribe across the water in South Wales. This must have been an interesting challenge because on most days, Wales is barely visible. It’s too far away. Even on a clear day they would have needed high-powered binoculars from the future to see anything other than mountains and beaches – or the odd bonfire by night.  They might have had more luck spotting shipping, although how would they have identified it? And what would they have done about it if they had?

Were the Romans afraid that the Silures would invade Exmoor?

These are the sort of questions that occur to someone currently reading a book about Roman Military Signalling.   People whose interests are less abstruse might like to imagine the chaps up there on a fine day enjoying the views:

and perhaps wondering what the Silures were up to over there:

while the locals got on with the daily challenge of finding food in unlikely places.

Sorry about the outage.  It was caused by a formatting problem, and some clever person who knows what that means has fixed it.

There were many good things about my old school, but the School Hall was not one of them. It was designed to be impressive rather than practical, and  like its much grander cousin the Albert Hall, it suffered from a terrible echo problem. The use of a microphone merely set the echoes bouncing around the walls from several competing sources, so that the noises had to be reassembled like a jigsaw before anyone could make out their meaning.  To stand any chance of working out what the Head was saying, the other 600 people at morning assembly had to remain completely silent.

The problem was infinitely worse in winter, because it was the season of colds.

If you had a cold in the late 1960′s/early 70′s, you were faced with a choice. You could stay at home, where with luck from time to time your Mum would come clattering across the lino of your unheated bedroom with a cup of Disprin, a bowl of steaming menthol mixture, and a towel. You would then be expected to sit above the bowl with a towel over your head, inhale the fumes, and Clear Those Tubes.

Alternatively, you could arm yourself with your own Disprin, stagger into school and spend the day wandering from one warm classroom to another in the company of your friends. The menthol mixture had to be left at home, but a similar effect could be achieved by consuming Fisherman’s Friends (a lozenge so powerful it can only safely be eaten when the tastebuds are dulled by cold) and sitting in a room whose radiators were brightly festooned with the damp socks and gloves of students hoping to get them  dry before getting them wet again on the way home.

Of course this had a dire effect on Morning Assembly, where one echoing cough could undo all the efforts of the Head and her microphone.  Every gathering was therefore prefaced with the words, ‘If you want to cough, cough now!’  The Head would stand and wait until the resulting explosion of sound had died away before attempting to improve our hearts and minds and tell us about the exploits of the First Hockey XI or the lunchtime practice arranged for the Senior Choir Third Altos.

Despite this tactic there remained patches of ignorance throughout the hall, caused by the stifled convulsions of girls trying to control throats that had begun to tickle outside the allocated time. People who needed to know things often left assembly comparing interpretations of what they thought they had just heard.

On reflection, it’s hardly surprising that Whole School Assembly is pretty much a thing of the past. Many schools now contain thousands of pupils and I’m told it’s possible to spend several years in one without ever finding out what the Head Teacher looks like. Perhaps we are the healthier for it, although the current industrial scale of consumption of Lemsip and tissues at Downie Towers suggests not.

Dear reader, through a festive haze of Hall’s Mentholyptus, I wish you a very merry Christmas, and a happy and healthy New Year.

If you want to cough, cough now.

I’m always interested in the way other writers approach their work, and the first thing I wanted to ask Jane was about her choice of lead character.

Me:  I once heard a writer say he wouldn’t have a woman as a lead investigator in a historical novel because it would be too restrictive – ‘men got out more’.

Is there anything you’d like to say to him?

Jane:  He’s missing a trick, in my view. Of course he’s right that men had “got out more” in most past eras…in theory. Certainly under ancient Roman law, males had all the political and most of the economic power…but I repeat, that’s in theory. It wasn’t always so in practice, because then as now, you can’t keep smart women down. And that’s precisely why I decided to have a woman sleuth in Roman Britain, and show how she could work the system and be much more independent than her legal status would suggest. My Aurelia is an independent-minded innkeeper. Her brother is the legal owner of the inn, but he leaves it to her to run, because they both know she is the brains behind it.

Me:  Aurelia’s inn is in Yorkshire – while this is God’s own county, does she have any plans to travel?

Jane:  Her next adventure will be set in and around London; she’s going there for a wedding, which promises to be a happy, trouble-free occasion. But…

Me:  What’s surprised you most in your research into Roman Britain?

Jane:  How similar many details of Roman life were to our own. Like their custom of holding birthday parties and inviting all their friends. Like the way rich men flaunted their wealth so blatantly they made themselves ridiculous. Like the politicians’ habit of feathering their own nests.

Me: My copy of ‘Danger in the Wind’ is on order. Tell me what I’ve got to look forward to!

Jane: A cracking good read, of course…sorry, that isn’t what you mean, is it? Well then: Aurelia is invited to a birthday party by her cousin Jovina, who lives at a quiet, rather dull fort north of York. Jovina’s invitation includes a warning of danger in the wind, and the day it reaches Aurelia, a soldier is murdered at her inn, carrying a coded message indicating some impending threat will disturb the fort’s peace. Aurelia goes to the party with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. The trepidation is well founded; the excitement turns to nightmare.

Hooray!

However, today I am delighted to read that someone has reached this page by doing a search for the words ‘disposable picnic boxes’.

I have no idea who or where you are (which is as it should be), nor how you got here or indeed why*, but you are very welcome.

*Ah… a further thought… something to do with the post on Japan, perhaps?

1) I am driving along the motorway while Husband, the first victim for any manuscript, sits next to me reading Ruso 5 – The Story so Far. Husband has a tendency to mutter odd words as he reads, hence when I hear the word ‘Sixth’ mentioned more than once, I smile in recognition. He has reached the passage about the arrival of the Sixth Legion! I say nothing to distract him.  I am somewhat surprised when he repeats the word for the third time, louder. It seems he is particularly impressed with this passage. Then he adds, ‘Gear.’ I ponder this for a moment, thinking of armour and shields.

‘Sixth gear!’ repeats husband, amazed that I am ignoring his helpful reminder. ‘You’re doing over seventy. Don’t you look at the rev counter?’

Er, no. My eyes are on the road. Clearly my mind is not.

2)  I have just returned from yet another 200-mile drive (a frequent occurrence when you live in the West Country) and barely taken the coat off when a young man phones needing some information for a form. We confirm Husband’s initials and then he says, ‘And your name is Arthur Ruth?’

‘Just Ruth,’ I say, puzzled. ‘Not Arthur.’

‘Arthur?’

‘No, not Arthur,’ I repeat, ‘Just Ruth,’ adding, ‘I don’t know where the Arthur came from.’ ( mailmerge, I suspect, but don’t say so).

‘No, not Arthur,’ he repeats, with the patient voice of someone who clearly thinks he is dealing with a total nitwit, ‘I said, R for Ruth.’

I hope to rejoin the real world shortly after 31 December. Meanwhile, dear reader, please bear with me.