I fell in love with Brigid many years ago, long before I sipped from her sacred well in Ireland. Long before, trembling, I tied a rag on her prayer tree on the Hill of Tara and begged for help. Brigid is the ancient Celtic goddess of healing, poetry, and metal-crafting. She is my source of strength and inspiration.
First pilgrimage to Tara, Ireland
People venerated Brigid, as Mother Goddess for thousands of years. Much later, in the fifth century, an abbess took her name. Along with her nuns, this Brigid built a monastic settlement in Kildare, which means Church of the Oak. She prayed. She healed. She performed miracles. And in time, the people proclaimed her a saint. Brigid appears in my stories. Even lends her name to one of my major characters.
“And you are?”
“Dylan McBride.” He reluctantly shook the outstretched hand.
The tall, muscular priest was a good head taller and as he pumped Dylan’s arm, the veins in his neck stood out. “McBride. That means, follower of St. Bride. I wrote a paper once on Bride or Brigit, which is her other name. She’s the patron saint of Ireland.”
“Aye, she is. St. Brigit founded thirty convents in Ireland. Her flame burned in Kildare until her nuns were raped and driven out in the Twelfth century.” Dylan cleared his throat and spit sideways into the shrubs. “I’ve written papers too.”
Sunday, February 2nd is Brigid’s day. In the ancient pagan calendar, this marks the midpoint in the Dark Times between Winter Solstice and Spring Equinox for those of us in the north.
Fifteen hundred years after her death, Brigid is still beloved in Kildare. Last year, her devotees marked her death anniversary, and Ireland proclaimed her the first Irish woman to be commemorated with an annual public holiday. Over centuries of strife, her bones had been scattered, but last year fragments were returned to St. Brigid’s Parish Church. If ever you visit Kildare, Solas Bhride is a Christian spirituality center led by the Brigidine Sisters who welcome “people of all faiths and of no faith.”
Brigid symbolizes the divine feminine, the beauty of art, the healing of the sick and injured, and veneration of the land, the trees, the animals, and all sentient beings. If you seek solace in this shifting world of shadows and feel fearful in these tenuous times, look to Brigid. Find a willing tree (always ask first) in a nearby wood and create your own Rag Tree. Tie a ribbon infused with your prayers upon her branches and ask for what you need. She helped me one day in Ireland when I felt all was lost, and she’ll help you too.
Author News
On February 25, I’m launching The Witch Killer. This series rebranding is an incredible journey I’m undertaking this year. Inspired by a talk given by thriller writer, Jonas Saul, on the island of Amorgos in Greece last September, I made the decision to change my pen name and re-release my books updated, reformatted, and re-covered, for a new audience. Of course, now that I’ve opened up to Estrada again, he’s started whispering about book six, which he wants to set in Greece.
It’s a heap of work, but the revitalizing of my books has given me new life. In many ways, I am my books. It’s inspired me artistically and creatively, and given me back my youth—or maybe that’s the Clinique kit I bought in the Black Friday sale. Hmmm …
Here’s a sneak peek at the new print cover for book 1 and a few links to my new self. Please follow me where you can. Alas, I’m a reborn author with few friends;)
Goodreads @183384153-harper-carr to read my latest reviews.
Actually, I listened to James Marsters (SPIKE of Buffy the Vampire/Angel fame) narrate Jim Butcher’s Stormfront, Book 1 of The Dresdan Files. Wow. I was hoping for Marster’s English accent but, alas, I’m impressed, both with his ability to portray Harry Dresden, a casual, demon-fighting American wizard who traverses Chicago’s streets and investigates strange murders, and with Butcher’s masterful writing style.
This is the 25th Anniversary of Stormfront. If you’ve never heard of it, do look it up, crime and urban fantasy fans. There’s a fanpage here but that’s kinda cheating. Dresden reminds me of someone I know intimately. Yep. That’s right.
The Dresden Files
I love how Butcher handles the whole question of technology—whether to use it or not. I hate writing technology, especially because it’s changing so fast it dates your work almost immediately. Although Butcher wrote Stormfront in the days of the VCR, he avoids this sinkhole by making Dresden’s wizarding aura interfere with technology. Harry Dresdan is old school, a brooding bad boy who’s awful good, shy around women, and an intelligent, masterful fighter. And bonus—there are seventeen audio volumes, all but one which have been narrated by James Marsters.
Oh, Lord. Sorry, Estrada. Did you say something? I’m listening to Harry.
I’ve been thinking for some time about starting a podcast called Travel by the Book. The premise is this: I (or one of my writer mates) travel somewhere, and I (or they) read fiction (preferably) or non-fiction (grudgingly) set in or near the travel destination, and the podcast then discusses not only the travel journey, but also the reading journey. Did we fall in love with the setting? How was the place different from the era in which the book was set? Did we notice social change, stunning architecture, a surplus of annoying tourists? How awesome was the food?
First: Amorgos. Why Did I Go?
A cruise of the Greek Islands has been on my bucket list for years, so how could I pass up a writing retreat on one of those iconic islands? Never mind that I’d just sold a house on Vancouver Island, bought a condo in the Vancouver burbs, and moved everything yet again. When I saw Jonas Saul’s Imagine Greece Retreats Facebook post, I was hooked.
“What do you think?” I asked my writer friend. We’d been talking about travelling together, perhaps even hosting our own writer’s retreats. “We should go,” she said. And so it began.
I’d met Jonas Saul in 2018 when he critiqued my first chapter at a Creative Ink blue pencil meeting, while Chris Humphreys, the featured author, lived on a nearby island in British Columbia and belonged to The Creative Academy, as did I. Knowing the presenters, however remotely, made it seem safe. And then there were the photos. Before we even left Canada, Jonas and his charming wife, Greek thriller writer Rania Stone, were answering questions and making us feel at home.
My trip from Vancouver to Toronto to Zurich and finally Athens was a nightmare I hope never to repeat and had nothing to do with them. Story here. Let’s just say, the last night I slept was Sunday in Vancouver, and I arrived at the hotel after midnight Wednesday after spending ten hours on a plane beside a coughing woman.
Athens is a dirty, gritty, glitzy, city, a hot and hectic hodgepodge—beatific faces of gods and heroes, dense clouds of cigarette smoke and diesel fumes, ancient ruins swathed in story and tourists, feeling ever lost and fearful, the sweetest tomatoes ever tasted (what’s with those tomatoes?), making wonderful new friends while searching for benign delicacies in a cluster of cafés, classic relics of an ancient world, sleepless nights where breathing seemed impossible … and then the sea, the port at Amorgos, a mountainous drive of switchbacks, and paradise. Lakki Village.
Lakki Village on Amorgos
I walked into my private room. The balcony doors were wide open, the curtains slow dancing in the salty breeze. After one deep breath, Athen’s smog disappeared. So revitalizing was the air, I left the doors open all night to absorb the golden waxing moon, and there, in the cool darkness, mosquitoes ate my face. These weren’t big loud Canadian mosquitoes. No, these were wee, sneaky, silent, buggers that left welts all over my cheeks, nose, shoulders, and neck. And I’d caught a virus while traveling—actually, it was Stella’s Australian cold pills that saw me through the worst of it.
Nevertheless. I dreamed and journaled.
Lakki Village is an oasis in a brown-hilled goat-herder’s world, its cliff-edges clustered with square white, cobalt-trimmed cottages. The sand beach is soft, the warm, salt waves fierce when they catch you unaware. The air is clean and today the wind is calm. Cats slide by or camp near our table, kneading the trees with soft paws, begging food. One morning I go for more juice and a swift black streak leaps up and steals ham from my plate. There are also dogs—one scary black Doberman mix and several adorable terriers, one of whom I want to stuff in my bag.
I went to every workshop—glorious tutorials held with a backdrop of turquoise Mediterranean Sea. In between, I dreamt of Jason and Odysseus sailing this whaleroad; searched in vain for goat cheese on this island of 25,000 goats; meditated with my muses; soaked up the sun and floated in the warm saltwater pool with new and wonderful friends (Stella!) and explored the nearby village, which I discovered on the final day sold the most incredible gluten free sourdough loaves and imported sheep cheese!
Second: How Amorgos Reminded Me I Love Writing
Each day, inspiration flew from the lips of our instructors—thriller writer Jonas Saul and fantasy/historical fiction author C.C. (Chris) Humphreys—and it landed with me. The first day, Jonas asked, “Why are you here?”
“I turned seventy this year. I either need to break through or give up,” I heard myself say.
Don’t get me wrong. Writing is my vocation. I can’t NOT write. But something was missing in the business of it all.
By the time the week ended, I had a plan. I’d decided on a new pen name to use with my two as yet unpublished Young Adult novels.
“An artist’s name must match their mission,” Jonas said. Indeed. I’d start with my two latest novels and, over time, I’d rebrand my ongoing urban fantasy Wicca thriller series. I spent an hour talking about my new works with Chris Humphreys, where I made changes to titles, synopsis, and the all-important first page. I’d pitch and pitch, and while I waited for that “YES,” I’d write and write.
I believed in me again and the thought made me tremble.
Chris talked “upticks” and “shout lines” and “comoca”— characters with objectives meet obstacles > creates action. Of course, we knew this, but there was something in Chris’s theatrical British voice that made it potent and noteworthy. Chris took us on a metaphorical journey up the mountain—three climbs, three drafts—and left us wanting more.
Other inspiration came from our motley band of International writers, who were some of the dearest people I’ve ever met. Most of us were introverts, our heads heavy with characters and stories, and though we met socially, we secretly longed for time alone to go deep and do what we do. Write and dream and write some more.
Third: What is Destination Reading and Why is it a Thing?
“It’s simple. Before you travel, read books (preferably fiction) written about the place you’re going and then see how it resonates with you.” Like Stella Quinn, My Family and Other Animals by Gerald Durrell (sorry Stella, it’s Duh-RELL) has been a favourite of mine for years. This is a comfort book … a whisper, a giggle, a belly laugh. You can stop and start, put it down and pick it up. It’s a book you will keep on your shelves.
Set on the island of Corfu (1935-1939), it’s the memoir/autobiography of a boy and his free-spirited family. Big brother Laurence Durrell became a rather famous author and Gerry a notable biologist. Unfortunately, one cannot duplicate the experience of a fanatical child naturalist in the 1930s on a geographically different island. While Corfu seemed to be a jungle of exotic plants and creatures, Amorgos was more of a hilly desert studded with hairy goats and surrounded by sand beaches, polished stones, and the most perfect sea imaginable. But it was in Durrell’s book I first learned the “don’t flush toilet paper in Greece” rule. This little passage reveals Gerry’s sister’s reaction to the whole sordid scenario.
I studied Mythos by Stephen Fry. At least, I managed “Part One—The Beginning” mainly because of Fry’s comedic wit, so departed for Greece with hazy notions of the gods and their idiosyncrasies. I’m particularly intrigued by Athena, who will undoubtedly find her way into my sixth Wicca thriller. Anyone who can spring from a crack in her father’s head wearing armour and a plumed helmet while carrying a shield and spear, is a match for my free-spirited Latino magician and coven high priest.
One marble statue of Athena
I took a uni course on Greek Art in 2007, so reread the text, Greek Art by Cambridge journalist and lecturer, Nigel Spivey. This enchanting art history book surveys Greek culture through the ages. It’s a heavy white tome on shiny, thick, paper. Sculptures leap from the page and vivid polychrome images present the ruins as the ancient Greeks might have viewed them. Explore this example of how polychrome is bringing those ruined marbles back to life or watch this.
Speaking of love, this stunning young man caught my eye.
The youth Antinoos of Bithynia, in Asia Minor was the favourite of Emperor Hadrian. After he drowned in the river Nile in AD130, Hadrian had him deified and erected numerous statues, busts, and portraits of him in cities and sanctuaries throughout the Roman Empire AD130-138.
All you need is love …
Finally, I read, loved, and reviewed a Young Adult Romance called Love & Olives by Jenna Evans Welch. Seventeen-year-old Olive is invited to Santorini by her long lost father, an Atlantis-obsessed explorer, to help him make a documentary about his life. Liv meets Nico, a stunning Greek boy in Oia, and they take us on a tour of Santorini.
This book was part of the reason, I took a Sea Jet to Santorini (Thera) after the retreat ended. After all, it was only a half-inch away on the map. I was pathetically seasick on the one-and-a-half-hour journey through gusty seas, and burst into tears when I finally saw my name on a sign in the parking lot—an unromantic introduction to Santorini except for Alekos, the middle-aged transport driver, who tried to revive me by running his water-soaked hands over my face and hair while murmuring soft reassurances.
Though we didn’t make it to Oia, Fira offered fireworks on an inky backdrop, a pyrotechnic display of the erupting volcano that destroyed Minoan culture (1600-1500BCE), a delicious view of the sea-filled crater dotted with cruise ships and yachts, a fabulous café overlooking the sea, clifftop clusters of white-washed hotels, and a bazillion beatific churches. We did visit the eclectic Atlantis Bookstore featured in Love & Olives and saw many of Thera’s artifacts in Athens at the National Museum of Archaeology. I have enough Santorini vibes in my soul to recreate it in my next urban fantasy—in particular, I can envision my hot magician racing and leaping across the white stucco rooftops, perhaps in pursuit of Athena.
Fira, Santorini
Intrigued? Join an active Greek Retreat Facebook group or go to their website and imagine yourself in one of these fabulous photos. Perhaps you too will have a life-changing experience in Greece.
In my last book review, I mentioned Atlantis Books. Since we were staying in Firostefani, which is where the current Atlantis Bookstore is located on the island of Santorini, we had to explore it. This cozy shop perches on the edge of the caldera, a vast, black, watery crater created when the volcano exploded on Santorini some 3600 years ago and wiped out the Minoans. A winding path allows tourists to wander up and down its edge and ogle the white-washed houses perched on cliff edges wrapped in greenery. There is a dog, a beautiful, lounging dog that fits perfectly among the quiet cacophony of books, maps, photographs, quotes, and memorabilia.
Atlantis Books is the lovechild of Craig and Oliver, who created the first rendition in 2004 with a group of friends. Previously, it was in Oia (EE-ah) that much photographed white and blue marvel of Greek island architecture. I imagine it’s a labour of love as most people come to browse and not buy. One whole room is devoted to large black and white photographs that chronicle the story of its birth. The shop is stocked with rare books and literature in several languages, philosophy, poetry, and all things Greek. It was a joy to see Leonard Cohen holding a prominent place among the shelves.
As some of you know, I’ve embarked on my writing retreat in Greece. I left Vancouver yesterday (Tuesday) at 6:30am in my first Uber, feeling excited and hopeful. A day later, I’m sitting in a Starbucks at Zurich Airport with free wifi and using my Euro plug. But I still haven’t made it to Greece. I really need to write this all down just to expunge it from my tired, battered brain so I can move on. Literally. If I count, I’ve been out here “traveling” for almost 24 hours, carrying all my gear, and wearing the same clothes.
Monday night, I made the mistake of checking the AC app (I think you all know who AC refers to, Canadian friends. Threatened pilot strike. blah blah blah.) The app announced that my Tuesday morning flight to Toronto with connection to Athens was delayed 1 hour 10 minutes.
I lay there all night, stress hormones literally percolating in my body, trying to decide if I should change my flight because I knew we were cutting that connecting flight really close. I had time I had 30 minutes to run between gates. My travel partner was joining me in Toronto and we were setting off on our Athens flight together. Around 2:30am, I discovered there was a 6am flight. I phoned the AC 24/7 lines five or six times and was told by the pleasant recorded male voice that there was a high level of calls and to be prepared for a three-hour wait time. I still haven’t been able to get through. I knew I wasn’t going to sleep all night so thought why not go out to the airport now and try to get a seat on that flight?
Then I thought, “No, you’ll be fine.”
That’s where I made my second mistake. I should have listened to my intuition.
Screenshot
The Athens flight, along with my partner, departed at 6pm (10 MINUTES EARLY.) Our Vancouver flight left later than predicted. The delay was apparently a mechanical thing. Then, one of the flight attendants was late and we all had to wait for him to arrive and board. Ironically, the best thing on that flight was the kind AC pilot sitting beside me. He helped me unravel the trickier bits of seat trays, overhead bins, and hidden screens. I thanked him and said, “You must wonder how I get through life.” He just smiled. He really was a great guy.
I was first off and raced through Terminal 1 because, you know, I had to try. I found the gate at 6:20pm. I was told that, “Nope. That plane has gone.” In the meantime, AC had rebooked me on a flight Toronto – Zurich – Athens. In theory, this was a decent plan. At boarding time, we, The 300, herded in the loading zones, but there was no plane on the tarmac. It had been in for maintenance that day and wasn’t back yet. About 30 minutes later, the plane appeared and they loaded the people who need extra help. The herd remained jostling anxiously. I wasn’t the only one with connections. About 30 minutes after that, the people who needed extra help came back off the plane and joined us. What? They were doing tests on the plane. Eventually, we all got on and took our seats, and sat there . . . and sat there.
At one point, the whole plane shut down and people stopped boarding. Here are some texts to my friend in Vancouver:
So all the power shut down in the friggin plane and we’re all sitting here in stunned silence.
It’s terrifying and they’re not telling us anything.
The lights are going to black. We’re on emergency power.
What was I thinking? Should I get off and get a hotel? What if this happens while we’re up in the air? I actually texted Tara: “I love you guys.”
When we grabbed the flight attendant, she said it was “just a routine system reboot and it’s 100% now.” She said, she’d made an announcement. Hello, the sound system wasn’t working.
We sat there in scary mode so long, one family with young kids decided to leave the plane. I understood. I was on the cusp of bailing myself when the captain came on to reassure us that everything was just fine. The new problem was the family’s luggage was packed in the hold with the other 300 suitcases. So, we sat there another 45 – 60 minutes while the ground crew rifled through the bags to give them their luggage and the mechanics tried to repair the inflight entertainment system. They were unsuccessful but it took two hours of trying. “It’s for the passengers, you know.”
Eventually, we left. Two hours late. Meaning, I lost my Athens connection in Zurich.
Then, we had a medical emergency somewhere over the ocean. The flight attendants canceled breakfast for everyone but business class because they love business class and they were too busy. Nope, they couldn’t even serve coffee—the coffee maker was broken or something . . . When we finally landed, we were told not to move because the paramedics had to come through to pick up the person. No problem. I’m no longer in a hurray.
So, there you have it. It’s Wednesday afternoon Zurich time and I’m hunkered down in this clean modern airport with a beautiful view of Swiss trees, tarmac, and planes. I have a dinner voucher worth 31 Swiss Franks (something like $50CA.) It’s raining, but I’m on the ground and I’m safe. I have a boarding pass that says I have a 7pm flight to Athens and I’ll arrive around 10:30 tonight and join my travel partner in the hotel. I haven’t slept yet and I really need a shower. But as always, I remained calm throughout. Well, mostly.
This is my first trip in seven years. Hmmmm . . . I know these are first world problems, but SSHHIIITTTT!
Find me at Port Moody Library Author’s Fair this Saturday June 15th from 1:00 – 3:00 pm. I’ll be reading in the Fireside Lounge around 2:30pm. Please come by and say hello! It’s good to be back home!
