The Ravens of Dinefwr is the first in a series of novels-in-progress set in the early 12th century. It follows the dispossessed members of the South Wales House of Dinefwr from their origins in Deheubarth to the centre of the known world, Jerusalem. Come and be my fellow Far-Farer. Come travelling and unravelling with me through Wales, Norway, Ireland, England, Scotland, France, Russia, Constantinople, Italy, the Balkans, the Holy Land. Come and Far-Fare through every degree on my 12th century compass.
Weave a Garland of my Vows is my first novel. It’s set in 17th century France & England and follows the life and times of Marie de Rohan.
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Here is my other writing site. It concentrates on my 17th century research.
Weave a Garland
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Hidden History Research 
So true, Greta. This event brings so much sadness in its wake. I have been reading lots of commentary in the British papers this morning, all ending on the “up” note of we will pledge to rebuild. No one, not one single person in the modern world can even begin to imagine how to “rebuild” this cathedral. It is not like constructing a space station, or fixing a car. It sprang organically from the absolute flowering of the medieval mind. We cannot even begin to step into that world and truly inhabit that space again. We do not even now know all the secrets of how it was constructed, though we can guess at some. It was one of the few, and there are still a few, places left where a person could step into a space that was truly “other”. Our Lady welcomed all travelers across centuries, and in her presence everyone bowed and fell silent, if even for a moment. Our Lady has secrets that she will never share, except maybe to a few. It feels so strange, as if witnessing the burning a Templar, a witch or a philosopher. So many secrets born and buried on the banks of the Seine.
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Wow, Deb. My thoughts Exactly! The building can never be rebuilt in the proper sense. The vibration, the intention will be changed. A calculated insult to Our Lady. I’ve been there twice, both times lighting a votive candle to and for my own dead and gone. Times that by several million and….
My disgust and contempt knows no bounds.
Thinking of you x
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