Boscastle - Where Witches Are Friendly and Broomsticks Optional!

On August 16th 2004, a terrifying flood threatened to wipe Boscastle off the map. It is to the inhabitants' great credit that they showed indomitable spirit in the loving restoration that has seen the reincarnation of the village into the picturesque place we see today.

So sudden and violent was the torrent that whole buildings were swept away. People lost homes and businesses,150 had to be airlifted to safety. Yet, miraculously, only eight casualties were reported and, of these, the worst injury was a broken thumb. An estimated 100mm of rain fell in one hour, making it one of the worst floods in modern UK history.

One of the casualties was the fascinating Museum of Witchcraft, right by the harbour. Over two metres of sewage and water knocked down walls and engulfed the ground floor. Maybe the many charms and good spells it housed watched over it that day because, amazingly, most of the artefacts survived. While renovation took place, books and paintings were sent to museums in Truro and Falmouth to protect them from further damp.

Today, it stands as a unique record of witchcraft through the ages, in all its many forms and manifestations. Aleister Crowley and the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn rub shoulders with Baphomet, the Green Man (found in many churches) and Sea Witchcraft. Here is coral, worn to ward off curses and illness while Mermaids' purses, washed up by the sea, were treasured and preserved as symbols of good luck. (They are actually egg sacks possibly containing a baby ray or dogfish).

A copy of Daemonologie - King James I's savage treatise on the evils of witchcraft - is displayed here, along with accounts of the torture and persecution of mostly innocent women that took place over centuries.

Here too are charms, witch's tools, fortune telling and divination, mandrakes and protection magic, including two mummified cats found walled up as a protection against rats and mice and/or evil spirits. As a cat lover, I was relieved to discover that these animals weren't sacrificed or walled up alive!

Then there's Joan, the Wise Woman, reminding us of the true origins of witchcraft. The Museum has created a tableau showing a benevolent old lady, her cat familiar on her lap, waiting for someone to tap on her door in need of her help. Jars and packets of herbs and healing remedies line a nearby wall, the efficacy and use of which would all have been known to someone like her.

This little museum is an education in itself, although for the serious student, there is also an extensive library. Some of the exhibits are quite scary, others quite sexual, so it really isn't suitable for young children, but for everyone else, it's a great experience, to be topped off by a wander down the harbour past the shallow, peaceful river. Hard to imagine how violent it became just nine years ago...

Nearby is the magnificence of Tintagel, steeped in Arthurian legend but, for me, Boscastle with its simple, understated beauty and charm, captivated me and kept me in its warm embrace the whole day.

 For more information, please visit Museum of Witchcraft

To watch footage of the devastating flood:

Centenary of a Suffragette's Supreme Sacrifice

Saturday, June 1st sees the running of the annual Epsom Derby horse race and marks the centenary of the death of one of the most famous British Suffragettes. Emily Wilding Davison was born on October 11th 1872 and was a woman with a fierce determination and belief in her ideals. She defied convention and earned herself, firstly a BA from Royal Holloway College (now part of London University) and then, some years later, a First Class Honours degree from Oxford.

She was born ahead of her time. Her beliefs and values were out of kilter with the male dominated society in which she found herself. Apart from discrimination shown to women in the field of education, her most vitriolic anger was directed at the continuing stubborn refusal of a Parliament comprised solely of males to allow women the vote. The government was happy enough to collect her taxes, but wouldn't allow her the right to say who was setting them!

Sadly, Emily and other likeminded women, received no support from the monarch either. Queen Victoria stated that she did not believe women should involve themselves in politics and therefore did not need the vote.

Emmeline Pankhurst

It was inevitable that, with such strong convictions, Emily would seek out others of similar mind, which drew her inexorably towards the Suffragette movement and into the sphere of the fearless and enigmatic Pankhursts. An ardent follower, Emily was all too ready to embark on their programme of civil disobedience, arson, and destruction of property. 

She joined Emmeline Pankhurst's Women's Social and Political Union (WSPU) in 1906 and was imprisoned no less than nine times, for a month or more at a time, for crimes such as stone throwing, obstruction, breaking windows at the House of Commons, setting fire to post boxes and assaulting a vicar (a case of mistaken identity as she thought he was Chancellor the the Exchequer, David Lloyd George!). She also targeted Lloyd George on at least two further occasions, throwing stones at his car as he was travelling to a meeting and attempting to gain access to a Hall where he was delivering a speech.

As with many of the most militant suffragettes, a prison sentence meant an immediate refusal to east or drink. On one occasion, Emily barricaded herself in a prison cell to prevent her being force fed. The authorities responded by flooding her cell with ice cold water and then dragging her away, whereupon she would have had a tube forced up her nose, or down her throat into her stomach.

This inhuman and barbaric treatment was often ineptly executed, leading to the tube puncturing a lung or causing permanent injury and lifelong digestive, heart and breathing problems. Force feeding in this manner was enabled by the passing of the, so called, Cat and Mouse Act. Fellow militant, Sylvia Pankhurst suffered with serious digestive problems for the rest of her life, following repeated instances of force feeding, which occurred twice daily for the duration of the prison sentence, or until the hapless woman agreed to eat normally. Many held out until released at the end of their sentence. Emily was force fed 49 times.

On 2nd April 1911, she managed to spend the night hidden in a cupboard near the crypt chapel of the Palace of Westminster, to ensure that the census for that year recorded it as her home! Emily was nothing if not imaginative and resourceful.

Increasingly desperate to achieve her goal, there is hard evidence that Emily believed that suicide could be a serious consideration. Emmeline Pankhurst, in her autobiography, My Own Life said her fellow Suffragette believed that only loss of life 'would put an end to the intolerable torture of women.'

What went through her mind on that fateful afternoon of June 8th 1913, as the horses galloped around Tattenham Corner? Was it suicide? She was undoubtedly capable of it, but a number of factors mitigate against it. One has always been the presence of a return half of her rail ticket in her pocket and a holiday she was apparently taking in a couple of weeks time with her sister. It is also said that she could not possibly have been able to make out which was the King's horse (Anmer) from her vantage point. 

But perhaps the most compelling evidence that she merely wanted to attach something to Anmer's bridle comes in the form of a WSPU sash, retrieved from the scene at the time and, much later, sold to the writer Barbara Gordon at auction - where she bid against the Jockey Club. They obviously believed it to be genuine and a recent Channel 4 programme shows slowed down restored footage of the tragedy. At the moment she is hit by the horse, she is holding up something remarkably like a sash and appears to be trying to attach it to Anmer. For the King's horse to have crossed the finishing line wearing a sash, proclaiming 'Votes for Women' would have been a coup indeed!

The footage also shows her to be in a different position to that previously believed. It is now entirely possible she was able to see the horse's distinctive King's colours, and it is possible to see her move quickly and deliberately, under the fence and into the path of this one specific horse.

Her fatal mistake was in misjudging the speed at which they were galloping. She was knocked unconscious and died in hospital four days later, without waking from the coma into which she had sunk.

Emily Davison may not have meant to die on that day, but, given her passionate beliefs, I have no doubt she would have thought her death to be a sacrifice worth making.

Emily was buried in her hometown of Morpeth, Northumberland, where her memory is revered to this day. On her gravestone in the Church grounds, is the inscription by which she lived: 'Deeds not Words'.



Sadly, it took World War I for women's right to vote to be granted. This came in two stages, firstly in 1918 for all women 'of property aged over thirty' and then, finally, in 1928 women achieved full voting equality with men.

For a limited time, you can watch Clare Balding's fascinating Channel 4 documentary, Secrets of a Suffragette by clicking here

'Haunted' Portraits

My latest novella, The Second Wife, features a haunted portrait of the first Mrs Marchant - Emily. It frightens the life out of Chrissie, her successor.

When researching some material for guest promotional blogs, I came across a quite extraordinary idea.

Courtesy of http://www.hauntedportraits.com/

Courtesy of http://www.hauntedportraits.com/

It seems you can now buy portraits that metamorphose from perfectly normal attractive photographs or paintings, into something grotesque, skeletal, ghostland/or demonic, right before your eyes..

 They are marketed as being perfect for Halloween - or any time of the year if you live in a haunted house. Apparently there are no mechanical or electrical bits to worry about. You just hang them and then watch what happens...

It's certainly a novel way to redecorate - and maybe a radical gift idea for that horror loving friend who has everything.

I can (kind of) see them on the wall of an old, creaking house but am not at all sure about the concept when applied to a modern three bedroomed semi in leafy suburbia.


Mind you, if you want to be the star of the show, you can always order a customised ghost portrait - featuring yourself:

Courtesy of http://www.hauntedportraits.com/

If that's not daring enough for you, remember the portraits that used to move around in the Harry Potter books and films? Always thought it would be fun to own one?

Try these:

The Kabrini Message

Today I'm handing over to Marie Carhart,who is talking about her late brother's recently published sci-fi novel, The Kabrini Message. I read this over the weekend and I can thoroughly recommmend it. A riveting read!

Thank you so much for having me here today, Cat. 

As you know, The Kabrini Message is a novel written by my late brother, Joe Egles, back in 1987.  I only recently discovered Joe’s manuscript (hand typed by our mother) in a box in my attic.  The whole “story-behind-the-story” can be read on the two-part blog post I did, so I won’t repeat the entire thing here.

http://kabrinimessage.blogspot.com/2012/11/the-story-behind-story.html

http://kabrinimessage.blogspot.com/2012/11/the-story-continues.html

 But basically, after reading The Kabrini Message and becoming entranced by it, I decided it must be published.  This “message” just had to make it out of the attic and into the hands of the public.  I know everything happens for a reason, when and how it’s supposed to.  I believe my “message” in finding this forgotten jewel was to make it my mission to get it out there and now, more than a quarter of a century after it was written,  must be the perfect time for it!

There are messages all around us; some people are just more tuned in than others – as is the case with the main character in The Kabrini Message, Jeffrey Driscoll.  Jeffrey always sensed when he was looking through his telescope that someone or something was looking back, which is why the Kabrini chose him to get their message out. 

We are all capable of receiving the messages surrounding us…if we listen carefully.  But to certain individuals, it just seems to come naturally.  Just like his main character, Joe was one of those people. 

For no particular reason, up until now, I have not released any excerpts, so this will be the very first one!  Here is a brief synopsis, followed by the excerpt.

Synopsis:

An alien race. A shocking message…

During an archaeological dig in Greece, Jeffrey Driscoll stumbles upon a miraculous find: ancient crystals with celestial coordinates that will connect humankind with the Kabrini, a highly advanced alien civilization. His discovery leads him on a quest from the jungles of Africa to the Islands of Greece, from the streets of London to the tombs of Egypt, from Washington D.C. to Los Angeles, Jamaica, and Vienna, and finally to the deepest depths of space and Earth’s first global space effort, the Legacy mission.

When Driscoll Mining and the U.S. Army complete deep space construction of the Kabrini communications network, the Legacy mission is deemed a success. But a dangerous terrorist group hungers for revenge, and Driscoll will stop at nothing to save the project. As his obsession with the Legacy mission spirals out of control, he risks losing everything—his company, his grasp on reality, and the one thing he’s ever truly loved: his wife. And when humankind finally makes contact, they discover the Kabrini Message isn’t exactly what they expected to hear…

Excerpt:

The fire in Professor Gregory’s study burned low.  Outside, it was just getting dark and the first drops of a cold London rain splattered against the windows.

“Alrighty, then,” Gregory started as he sat down behind his desk. “As you may know, the Romans had umpteen gods. So did the Greeks. So what’s one more soothsayer? With a god for every occasion, they were only being religious by convenience anyway. That's why I never took this damn thing so seriously in the first place.”

"Took what seriously?” asked Driscoll.  “The Romans…or the Greeks?”

"Neither,” said Gregory sounding exasperated already. “I’m talking about the Oracle, the Oracle, you numpty.”

Gregory was clearly annoyed.  He was used to dealing with his razor-sharp archeology students, and they were used to paying attention to details.  Driscoll was not…at least, not to the point required for Gregory’s complex explanation. Driscoll practiced what he liked to call a holistic approach to life situations.  In other words, he took in the big picture and then did whatever was necessary to keep from getting chucked out of it.

“The Oracle, right, at Delphi,” said Driscoll. “You mentioned that on the phone. But what’s the fuss? It's not news. That's where rich folks went for advice about the future, right? The place where people went for prophecies…from priests or something.”

“But the Oracle wasn't just a place, like a fountain or a shrine,” corrected Gregory. “It was supposed to be a person, or a deity, who only spoke through priests. The priests in turn doled out the information to the faithful.”

“And by ‘faithful,’ you mean those who could afford to pay,” said Driscoll.

“Well, yes,” agreed Gregory. “But my point is, it couldn't have been all rubbish or they wouldn’t have kept coming back for advice. And they did…important people, like Caesars and such. There must have been something to the Oracle’s prophecies.”

“Unless it was just fashionable,” said Driscoll.

“Ah…wait, what?” stammered Gregory. Driscoll had broken his train of thought, which stunned the professor into silence. “This is what’s so difficult about talking to Driscoll,” thought Gregory. He never knew when to expect an intelligent comment. This one had caught him by surprise.

Driscoll kept talking as Gregory struggled to regain his composure. “I mean, in those days, you couldn't impress your wealthy friends by buying a flat screen TV or a Ferrari—so you blew a load on the Oracle to show off.”

Gregory was mildly shocked. “Has money made Driscoll wise?” he wondered. “No, no, surely not. It never works that way. But trust Driscoll to do everything ass-backwards, including getting smart,” he thought.

“Precisely!” Gregory finally answered. “And what do you suppose the priests did with all that wealth, mate?”

“I don't know,” Driscoll responded as he thoughtfully scratched the stubble on his cheek.

“Neither did anyone else,” Gregory said with a slight leer in his eye. “Until now.”

Driscoll dropped his boots to the floor and leaned forward on the leather couch. This had definitely piqued his interest.

“Listen to this,” said Gregory, producing a notebook from his jacket pocket. “This is an exact translation from a scroll my colleague Jessup unearthed near Delphi.”

The professor flipped through the tattered pages of his composition book and read aloud:

“‘I am an apprentice to a scribe.  But, by the time this is read, I will not only have been a scribe, but will have been dead for some two thousand years.

However, due to my experience as apprentice to Piros—scribe, scholar and personal acquaintance of the Great Emperor Claudius—I have access to certain knowledge, which if I do not set down, may be lost forever; unless the High Priests forsake their vows, which is not likely.

But to share this knowledge in my own time would certainly be the cause of my death.  Therefore, I share it with yours.’”

Gregory paused and glanced at Driscoll, who seemed to be mulling over the words.

“So this guy has something important to say, is that it?”  Driscoll said sarcastically.

Gregory rolled his eyes.  “Yes, yes…brilliant.  Now, listen to this part, mate,” he said.  He continued reading:

“‘In my time, I have no understanding of what I have seen.  Yet I hope the passage of many centuries may bring wisdom to my words so that you, in your distant world, though you are standing exactly where I am now, may read and understand.

For I have seen the Oracle at Delphi.  And It is not Human.’”

“Not human?!”  Driscoll repeated.  He was leaning so far forward now, Gregory thought he might tumble off the couch.

“That’s what the bloody man says,” said Gregory, “and he should know.  He claims to have been there several times and seen this Oracle thing twice.  Once while it was reclining and going about ‘business as usual’ with the High Priests, and once when it was being carried out.  During this second viewing, the scribe said the Oracle didn't look at all well.  It might have been dying or perhaps already dead, and the priests were taking the body to some secret burial place.  Anyhow, It was never brought back.  Apparently, interest in Delphi seemed to wane after that, at least among the big shots.  For the Caesars and the like, the Delphi prophesies seemed to have lost most of its punch.  The priests continued to sell prophesies, but more so to the public—at a cut rate, I presume.”

“Discount prophecies,” Driscoll said with a pensive grin.  “Talk about bargain shopping.”  He paused briefly to take another sip of brandy.  “Did he write anything else about the Oracle, Itself?” he asked anxiously.  He was already getting involved. “I mean, did he say what it looked like?"

“Oh yes,” said Gregory with a smug smile.  He knew he had Driscoll now.  “In fact, he was quite descriptive.  The scroll was very long . I only copied the first part, but I read Jessup's entire translated version.  He said the Oracle's appearance was that of a boy with longish hair—except It had pale blue skin and dark blue hair.”

“Holy shit…sounds like some kind of freakish Smurf!”  Driscoll said.

Gregory restrained from rolling his eyes this time.  “Also, Its eyes were clear, or maybe white.  The translation is not precise on that point.”

“Pretty strange, either way,” Driscoll said, genuinely interested.

“Yes, and it gets even stranger,” continued Gregory.  “The scribe’s description was from that first occasion, when the Oracle was reclining on a couch and being attended by the priests.  He said it appeared to be nude except for a thin, light blue veil and—are you ready for this Driscoll?—It had the sexual organs of both male and female!”

Driscoll said nothing.  He just sat on the edge of the couch, his elbows resting on his knees, his empty glass dangling from one hand.

Gregory stood up, stretched and walked out from behind his desk.  He leaned against the front of the desk and said slowly, "Driscoll, I think that Oracle was an alien.  Those High Priests had found, and were keeping, a bloody alien!”

The rain tapped on the windows.  The darkness from outside seemed to crowd into the study, despite the blazing fire.

Driscoll slowly set his glass on the coffee table and stared into it for a few moments.  His mind raced back to his boyhood bedroom.  He recalled all those sleepless nights he’d gazed at the stars through his homemade telescope as his drunken father raged downstairs.  Fast-forwarding to college, he remembered the countless hours he spent in the Princeton observatory studying the infinite depths of space, examining each pinprick of light.  Every time he’d ever looked up at that endless vista, he’d always had a feeling there was something—or someone—looking back at him.

“Gregory…”  Driscoll began stiffly.  For once, he was truly at a loss for words. “Gregory, are you…that is, well…don't you think you might be jumping to conclusions?  I mean, isn’t it more likely that that poor thing was the sad result of generations of inbreeding or something?  We know it went on all the time, back then.  Maybe that or some terrible disease or something…”

“Goddammit, I’m a scientist, Driscoll!”  Gregory interrupted.  “I don't jump to bloody conclusions.  It’s true, I don't have any real proof, but that's where you come in.  And anyway, there’s more. About the crash site.”

Now, have a look at the fabulous trailer:

  http://www.youtube.com/embed/kMnnm_MnmV8

You can buy The Kabrini Message here

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