The Crowning...

... for Knots in the String

‘O King, be loyal to the royal within you.’ William Shakespeare

I was three when Queen Elizabeth II was crowned so I have no memory of the occasion.

But my family were a breed of Australians who respected the monarch and there was a pile of royal books in the bookshelves by the fireplace at the beach cottage where Nanny (my grandmother) lived.

I would sit on the old chaise-longue which was covered in a royal ruby moquette, my face warmed by the flames. As the fire crackled and sparks drifted in lazy veins up the chimney, I would read about the young princesses, about Buckingham Palace and Windsor, Sandringham and Balmoral, about George VI and Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother, Queen Mary and King George V, about Queen Elizabeth II’s coronation, and about Charles and Anne in books that were well-thumbed and where most of the photographs were in black and white. It was, to a little girl, the stuff of fairytale, backed up by being taken to the cinema and standing for the National Anthem (God Save the Queen at the time) and then watching Movietone News which would invariably have a royal newstory.

Nanny gave me a little silver version of the Gold Coronation Coach pulled by white metal horses and it sat in a shadow box in my bedroom when I was a child and over the years, I inherited the odd celebratory mug or two from Royal Doulton and which were carted round Australia as my husband and I moved for his career.

The value (or not) and politics of constitutional monarchy and the deeper ramifications of colonial imperialism aside, I’ve had lifelong interest in and affection for the Royal Family and have always made time to sit and watch the panoply and pageantry of great State occasions. When visiting the UK, I would become a ‘royal’ tourist because history and royalty are so woven together, warp and weft, right back to the Dark Ages and further.

Sometimes I wonder if it was that fledgling fire-lit reading that inevitably gave me my love of history and set me on a path…

In any case, to see a coronation in my lifetime is quite unique. I can remove the 21^st century easily and ‘see’ past eras readily. For a start, almost every coronation from 1066 has been conducted in Westminster Abbey.

I will make an occasion of it for my husband and myself here. Should I have to defend myself against naysayers, I will point out that I often pick an occasion and make a celebration of it as it helps the year pass with upbeat moments.

We won’t take any notice of the snarky republicans both in the UK and in Australia. This is about the history and pageantry of the moment and the curious symbolism of the process.

We’ll have a broadbean and fennel tart (my version of the tart suggested by King Charles for the UK street celebrations), small roasted potato pieces, a pear and rocket salad for dinner. Then we’ll settle in front of the TV and we’ll watch the whole broadcast through the night.

For dessert and to give us energy to last the distance, we’ll have Prince William’s Biscuit Cake which has become a family favourite. It’s mega-chocolate-rich and flavoured with orange rind and dried fruit – delish! (My husband always makes it for my birthday.)

We’ll be happy for Charles that he’ll finally fulfill his destiny. We think he’s a good man (in an invidious position where he’s damned if he does or doesn’t) and that every decision he makes will be done with care and diligence within the bounds of a constitutional monarchy. We’ll wish him well.

My Time:

Mostly, just appreciating the walks that I do on the coast with the terrier.

No sounds of the city.

At night, as we walk along the unsealed bike track that skirts the beach, there’s the sound of waves whispering as they roll gently over the sand. No swells at the moment, and no moon as we await a cool weather change. There’s an occasional shrill pipe from a pied oyster catcher but little more. And bounding in nervous little leaps across our torchbeam are white tailed bunnies. The terrier grew up being told in a sing-song voice that they were puppydogs and seems to have no interest in hunting them. Mind you, I told him wallabies were puppydogs as well and so he just walks past blithely. The wildlife looks at this little jaunty, white, hairy dog, wondering ‘What the hell?’

I love these walks. I love the sounds of nature, the smell of the eucalypts, seaweed, boobyalla and salty sea – it sets me (and perhaps the terrier), up for the night.

But… daily, every time I gravitate to the manuscript to continue writing, something occurs and time passes. Chores are completed, the terrier has his X2 walks (no sign of Paralysis Tick illness, thank heaven), plants are planted, others cut back.

I attend my first embroidery group for this year and I wonder if in keeping with the royal moment, I should begin stitching the Coronation piece now (see last week).

Thanks to my stitching mentor, Merrilyn, I hope I can get a grasp on that stunning clutch that came from the late Brenda Kinsel’s style blog . Brenda found the bag in a secondhand shop in Sonoma, (California) and I have no pattern, just a screen grab. So it becomes brain games, I assure you.

I digest a little more of Brenda’s words to try and find ‘my look’ and decide that it may be a little late at my age. I come to the conclusion that Germany has the most elegant fashion in the world (Schokoladenjahre ) and at best, I’m dreaming that style can be acquired by someone who lives my kind of life on an island in the nether regions of the globe…

I dream too of where my 14^th novel is heading. It really is the dénouement of this particular story and if I had to describe it I would say it’s like a song of dreams from a bard who is earning his keep as he wanders. It’s been a pleasure to write this fantasy after seven years away from the genre.

That said, I’m busting to return to 12^th century historical fiction and to the 50,000 words about a monk scribe that I wrote before I took a sabbatical. That is, by the way, a good sign. At least I didn’t walk away from the art form altogether.

Watching:

TransAtlantic – kind of arthouse, IMO. I liked it. My husband didn’t.

Rogue Heroes – it’s larrikin-rough, tense-tough and awesome. That these men set themselves up to stop the African advance in WWII! A truly, dangerously mad bunch of heroes.

Alone Australia – four people left out of ten. The Tasmanian wilderness is picking off folk like flies. It’s tough – the mammoth mental strain of being solitary, far from civilisation, starving, sleeping rough in what appears to be constant rain… I thank the stars we live on the east side of the state and are lucky enough to have a vegetable garden and a house. Not so lucky for those I saw in the city this week, homeless folk who must feel such inordinate pain as they watch our state government preparing to build a $A700+ million sports stadium in Hobart. So too, the mental health patients whose facilities and treatment options are closing down with little to no interest from the state government.

By the stars, Premier and elected fellows! If you can’t have a clue, at least have empathy!

Seven Kings Must Die. I’ve watched all of The Last Kingdom and needed to see this through. I thought about it afterward and wished that Uhtred of Bebbanburg had been left to become an ageing and revered thane, telling stories in the hall of the great fort of Bebbanburg (Bamburgh Castle).

But he was a warrior, in his heart a Danish warrior, and so had a hero’s passing. It was right, and besides, ‘Destiny is all…’

Arthur: A Life with the Royal Family. A very positive documentary about Arthur Edwards, photographer with The Sun, who has worked with the Royal Family for a lifetime. In his eighties now, his dream is to photograph the Coronation of King Charles. There seems to be a great deal of mutual respect passing between the photographer and the photographed.

Listening:

Matthew Harffy’s Forest of Foes, Book 9 of The Bernicia Chronicles. In Harffy’s usual manner, his characters are thrillingly dimensional. Also, as someone who has set her characters in Lyon quite frequently, albeit the 12^th century, I found it interesting to read about Lyon in the Dark Ages, as Beobrand and his gesithas try to make their way to Rome.

Forest of Foes is read beautifully by Barnaby Edwards – wonderful tone, pronunciation, and such a way with character!

Reading:

In print, I’ve almost finished Raynor Winn’s The Salt Path. Inspirational and courageous. How they move through grief and pain to survive is a lesson to us all, set against the backdrop of tumultuous British sea and jagged coastline. Metaphors abound. That they will be stronger is a given. That Moth survives his terminal illness? I’m not far from the conclusion to this true journey of discovery, so time will tell.

I’ve loaded my Kindle with a couple more of Fiona Valpy’s titles (see previous newsletter) but am yet to begin.

On Substack:

Have thoroughly enjoyed these this week.

I want to do one of Jo’s classes on how to do an Instagram reel – believe me, no one does it quite like Jo. My daughter’s done one and learned so much! Jo also mentioned https://www.instagram.com/thecottageherbalist/ on Instagram and I decided how much I would love to learn about herbals, about healing teas and beautiful aromas that spring from things that grow, about foraging for health-giving plants like some medieval wood-wife.

I realised that I’m not done with learning yet and that probably every little thing I learn – be it herbs, stitching, dance or even just the play of shadow and light – will in some way enter my novels like little dust motes in a sunbeam, to reflect history.

It’s a good feeling knowing there’s learning and life in the old dog…

*

And so, by the time many of you read this, the Coronation will be done.

Some of you may have celebrated, still others won’t care one jot. But don’t you agree that the Brits do timing and pageantry like no other on this earth?

As always, I try to select some music that fits and so in the spirit of the crowning of a king, predictably (and no doubt awfully clichéd) here it is: