BEAUTIFUL PLACES: A Village in Ireland and a Tiny Medieval Village in France

Thanks for being patient while I resolved my internet crisis. I think it's resolved, at least.


Don't you love this one? Sent in by Kerri Nelson, she says: "Just found your blog and love your new contest. Thought I'd send you a pic of where we went for our honeymoon. Well, this was one adorable town that we visited in Ireland known as "Westport: The Tidiest Town in Ireland". Gotta love a tidy town, aye?"

There will be more later from others, I hope, since several people have indicated they want to send in pics. In the meantime, I thought I'd show you the place that was the surprise of our Mediterranean Cruise last September:


I didn't go on the cruise with any special expectations of France because my interest was in Italy and Spain, where I want to set some books. But I thought a tiny 16th Century village set in the foothills of the Alps would be a unique change of pace. It was more than that. St. Paul de Vence, above Nice, completely charmed me. Today it's mostly a tourist trap, of course, but it is remarkable anyway. Above is a view of residences on the outskirts of this little walled village. Few people live inside the walls now and most of it consists of lovely little boutiques, art galleries and outdoor cafes. But much of the ancient structure is preserved.


The village area was inhabited at least back to the 9th Century. In the 16th Century, apparently the King of France saw the village as vital to the defense of his interets, so he took over, kicking out most of the residents to re-build and wall in the village as a fortress to defend the pass between France and Savoy. The walled structure from this time remains, but there is not much change in the actual buildings. I'm telling you this the way the tour guide told us. You can find a more detailed- and more accurate- summary of this charming little place at http://www.saint-pauldevence.com/tourism_uk.html



There are no streets inside the walls wide enough to drive a car. These wonderful paved walkways wind up and down, all through the village, past shops and outdoor cafes, up to the high capped city walls where you can look down on the cramped little cemetery and beyond to the valley below. I didn't see the Mediterranean from here, but it's visible from the village walls.



I didn't actually ask, but I'm sure these lovely pebbled pavements were created very recently. But their charm only adds to the medieval ambiance.

So now I have one more Most Beautiful Place in the World. And now I'm imagining stories of a fictional tiny village guarding a pass between two nations in the Alpine foothills, and the struggle to possess it. Hero and heroine on opposite sides of the conflict, of course.

Big Internet Fight

I'm back, at last, after fighting with the internet for over a week. New router, more trouble. But it looks like we're back on line solidly now. I'll be posting later this afternoon. Thanks, all, for being patient.

Delle

MALE vs. MOLE, or, HERO CAT SAVES FAMILY LAWN

In memory of our old cat Shadow, here's a wacky story that is mostly true. (The not-so-true parts? The guys don't work that hard and are only lawn buffs when I say it's become a jungle.)

Shadow, the Hero Cat (In her broader days)

In summer I do most of my writing outdoors on the deck under a curtained canopy that provides shelter from rain and enough shade for me to see my laptop screen. Last summer while I worked, an additional opportunity arose. I became a War Correspondent. And I didn't even have to leave the deck to do the job.

Here's how it happened: You see, there's something about a string of mole hills laced around a yard that can set even the least intrepid of yard guys into a frenzy. I'm not talking about those strange males with green thumbs who spend entire summers weeding, seeding and trimming every blade of grass to the perfect height. I can't imagine how guys like that survive a mole attack. It's dangerous enough for my guys, and our lawn isn't exactly one a normal suburbanite would discuss in polite company.

Moles are not the innocuous tiny rodents digging around in the dirt they try to make you believe they are. They are vicious, loathsome, alien beings bent on the destruction of the American Way of Lawn. They are an affront to the masculinity of the American male. Therefore it is inherent in any American male that he must rise to the defense of home, hearth and backyard.

Nor is the struggle confined to male humans. The American house cat of either gender also feels honor-bound to join in the struggle to save the dandelion-dotted expanse of green. Or maybe it's that moles taste good. I'm not really sure. At any rate, the two males and two black cats of our household immediately united in the struggle against the common enemy.

I'm not really sure whether it was the human males or the black-furred Special Forces that took up the battle first, but the first sign of battle I glimpsed involved shovels leveling the mounds. By morning, the mounds were back.

Meanwhile, Jinx and Shadow took turns at the latest mound. Jinx dug and dug, turned around and came at the hole from a different angle. Eighteen-year-old Shadow, whose favorite daily routines consist of eating, sleeping, using the litter box and issuing various commands to be petted, let out or fed kitty treats, stood- or rather laid- guard whenever Jinx was not around. But the mounds multiplied, making a nearly complete circle in the yard.

Mole traps, suggested my son. I looked out and saw seven-year-old Jinx digging into the freshest hole like a dog after a bone, while old Shadow supervised from the shade of the redwood tree. And seeing Jinx going deep enough that half of her body was hidden from sight, I vetoes traps. They'd catch more cats than moles. Jinx is nothing if not exuberant in her pursuit of any critter that moves, and I could picture her poor little paw hideously mangled in the trap's ominous jaws.

Rocks, then, they decided. Soon they were hauling in gravel from the driveway and packing it into the holes, which they then flattened with their favorite weapons, shovels. It worked. The moles didn't re-appear in those holes. However, they did move on. More mounds. Closer to the house. My mind was starting to replay the horrors of gophers in Caddy Shack, and I could see those nasty creatures tunneling beneath the house and under-mining the foundation.

And Jinx kept digging, and Shadow kept supervising.

Since the rocks didn't stop the enemy, the guys turned to stronger measures. They'd flood them out. So the garden hose came into action, and the water ran until the neighbor's lawn downhill from us once again turned green even though it was mid-July, and my mind's eye envisioned our house inching downhill in a mudslide. Likely the moles were living it up beneath our very feet, basking beside their underground swimming pools. Only moles would do a thing like that.

Closer, closer, the tell-tale mounds came to the house, and the yard was beginning to look like a minefield. Nothing could stop their forward advance.

Someone said poison, and the guys took it to heart. No, said I, if the cats could dig up a trap, they could dig up poison. We must protect our allies. But what could we do? The moles were winning battle after battle. And the guys were talking backhoe. That would get rid of the moles, all right, but yard as we know it would cease to exist.

Then early one morning I was under my canopy typing away when I looked out to the battlefield through my computer glasses, which meant I didn't see all that well, and I saw Jinx going after a new hole with a new vengeance.

But squinting a bit harder (when I really could have just reached for the other glasses), I realized the cat at war was quite a bit fatter than Jinx. That was old Shadow digging, with all the energy and fury Jinx put into the endeavor. What was this? The feline couch potato in hot pursuit of the enemy? Never in all the years we've had her has she been a hunter, but the way she was shoveling the dirt, I would have sworn she was just about to bring home a mole for dinner.

My heart swelled with pride for the old girl. "Go, Shadow, go," I whispered, and sat up straighter to watch her work. "Go, girl. Save the yard from the backhoe. "

She dug, dug, dug. She came back up. She ran around the mound to the opposite side, and dove in again, sending dirt flying. Knowing her particular eating habits, I figured she'd expect me to roast it in the oven for her supper so it would be nice and tender for her old teeth.

Then she did the altogether too thinkable. She turned, backed onto the dirt and squatted.

Well, we all know Shadow was really simply indulging in one of her favorite daily activities. Don't we?

All I can say is, that was about a year ago and I haven't seen any new piles of dirt in the yard.

ELVES- HEROES FOR OUR TIME?

Years ago, when I wrote Bound to Love Her, my first Elven romantic-suspense novel, I did it for two reasons.

1) I’d heard that you could write a fantasy and get it published in a romance sub-genre, as long as it had the lurve.

2) I’d seen Orlando Bloom as Legolas in the Lord of the Rings movie.

All writers start out with a basic idea and embroider on it. I live in Boulder, Colorado, a pretty environmentally minded town. That and Elven lore in general caused me to make my Elves guardians of the earth, and also vulnerable to its destruction. They merge with the land, they draw their energy from it, and when it ceases to be land and becomes a foundation for roads, homes, or malls, they die.

But roads, homes and malls aren’t evil, and Elves aren’t always good.

Fantasy novels are a great way to explore philosophical and sociological issues. Romance novels are a great way to explore personal relationships. In Bound to Love Her, Galan, my Elven hero, distrusts humans. They’re driving his people to extinction, although they don’t know it. And Erin, my human heroine, distrusts Galan, because he won’t acknowledge the feelings between them, and also because Elves have this nasty habit of hypnotizing humans and rejiggering their reality. They were brought together by magical circumstance and a villain, which are both fun.

Fast forward to my second book, Stolen Magic, which just came out. This time, I wanted to explore the world of Elves from the inside looking out. Were they a devoted group of folks, with no dissent? Did they get everything they needed from each other? Does anyone? And so I created Adlia, the odd Elf out. She never knew her parents, is short where other Elves are tall, and lacks the magical talent that reassures Elves that they are, well… magical. She wanted someone to love her for all the things she was, not look at her funny for the things she wasn’t. She needed someone with a welcoming clan – family and friends who know that people aren’t perfect, but who love and take care of them just the same. Mark Speranzi (Italian for hope), fit the bill perfectly.

As for Elves and the humans, they’re getting better at compromise. If the books have a message, it’s that states of all-bad or all-good are thin on the ground. Relationships change, the planet changes, there is no perfect state of equilibrium, no Eden to return to. There never was. That doesn’t mean we stop trying to make things better, both for ourselves and others.

You can find back-cover blurbs and first chapters for both books here, and please drop by my ElvesInBoulder Giveaway, where you can register to win two different prizes.

1) Jewelry, art, and body care.

2) Free hotel nights, restaurant and boutique gift certificates, and theater tickets in my very own Boulder, Colorado.

And to show that giving is sometimes as fun as receiving, you can also don a pair of pointy ears and upload your photo (cut-and-tape pattern provided). I’ll donate a dollar to the Nature Conservancy for each of the first 500 pointy-eared folks I see. You’ll be pretending to be an Elf, but you’ll be a hero (or heroine) for real.

Esri Rose is the author of two books about Elves in Boulder, Colorado – Stolen Magic, just out, and Bound to Love Her. She lives in Boulder with her husband and her cat, only one of whom has pointy ears. You can find her main website at ElvesAmongUs.com and her Giveaway site at ElvesInBoulder.com.

YOUR MOST BEAUTIFUL PLACES #1

I loved all the wonderful responses I got. Some have sent photos and others commented. managed to find some photos to go with a lot of the comments.
AND DON'T FORGET, YOU STILL HAVE ABOUT 3 WEEKS TO SEND IN YOUR REMARKS AND PHOTOS!



"The most beautiful place on earth is my birthplace and home, the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. God's Country, as I call it. The valley and mountains are my inspiration. Shenandoah is an Indian name and means 'Daughter of the Stars.' Photograph by my mother, Pat Churchman." ~~Beth Trissel

Truly wonderful, Beth! I visited there when I was 9 years old on a trip with my aunt and uncle, and it led me to write my first poem/song.


For you beach lovers and lovers of beaches, I'll repeat this romantic shot of a beach on North Kaua'i:


"My most beautiful place is any beach with my husband. I would love to go to Hawaii, but have not so far." ~~Rhonda

"The beach at Anna Maria Island on a sunny early June day; umbrella, book, wine, the lulling rhythm of the waves, the bath-warm water. Sand so white it seems like snow. No phone calls, no 'to do' list. School is out for teachers, too!" ~~Kathryn

"I have a thing for beaches, too." ~~Donna


For Rhonda, Kathryn and Donna, here's Anna Maria Island off the East Coast of Florida. Truly beautiful white sand with magnificent blue sky and ultramarine ocean!


"One--the reef my husband and I snorkeled in when we visited St. Lucia..." ~~ Eliza


This reef photo was taken off St. Lucia. I see why you love it so much, Eliza.

"Two--the top of Brandon Mountain in Ireland. It is really more like a tall hill. It sits on the Dingle Peninsula, and is just the most gorgeous view of the lands. ~~Eliza


And I found this one of Brandon Mountain that looks just like your description.


"For me, nothing can top London!! As much as I loved the beaches in Mexico and Majorca, etc...the heat and sand override the beauty for me. But London...from the architecture to the breathtaking gardens...I just can't ever get enough!" ~~Jerrica




I have lots of great photos of London, Jerrica, but this one is "tops"- taken from the top of the London Eye, looking down on Parliament.

Danielle says: "My favorite place in the whole world is Yellowstone National Park--there is a variety of beauty there like no other place--as if the Earth in that area is alive and breathing all around you. I once had the opportunity to go snowmobiling in the Park before it became overcrowded and they had to make some restrictions. White snowfall billowing over those sea blue geysers. The buffalo milling around with frozen Santa beards--I'll never forget that as long as I live. What a great contest. I'll have to post a photo later in the month."

We'll wait eagerly for your photos, Danielle. I saw Yellowstone only once, but it is unforgettable

Martha says: "It is hard to pick just one beautiful spot! I have some photos of Madiera Spain, and some from my River Rhine cruise, plus San Cabos Lucas. "

Madiera, The Rhine, Cabo! Three places I've never been and would love to see.. I can't wait for your photos, Martha.

Send more, everyone!

SINS Excerpt #2: A REAL CLIFF HANGER!

“Blazes!” Edenstorm gaped at the black storm that rolled in like dense smoke, flashing lightning and driving a waist high wave straight at them.

God, what had he done? How was he going to get her out of here? She was right; the cave would trap them and drown them. But the cliffs around the cave were unscalable. They could climb a few feet, but no more. The only route to the top was across sand that had already been flooded.

But the water would recede with the wave.

“Up the cliff,” he said. He grabbed her waist and shoved her up the rock face.

“We can’t climb that,” she protested.

He hauled himself after her, seconds before the next wave slammed against the rock, dousing them with the spray.

“When it recedes, jump down and run for that rockfall.”

“They’re not stable. We can’t get up there, either.”

“It’s the only place we’ve got. Maybe we can get up high enough for now.” He waited as the wave lost power and receded until it was shallow enough to jump into it.

“Go!”

He leaped down, but she hesitated. He grabbed her waist and lifted her down. “Come on! There’s no time to waste!”

She ran through the shallow water near the base of the scarp. He ran behind her, his eyes on the next wave coming in like a cliff of water. They had to reach the rocks before it hit or the sand would disappear beneath their feet, and they’d be helpless against the undertow.

“Run!” he shouted, as if his voice could make her run faster.

They splashed their way, each step slowed more as the water deepened, pushed inland by the oncoming giant wave. Only a few more feet to the rock slope. To seaward, the wall of water rolled toward them. He hoisted her into the air and thrust her up onto the rockfall. She climbed like a spider and wedged herself between two boulders. Behind her, he gripped crevices in the rock and started climbing.

The wave smashed against him, tall as his face, washing him away and banging him against the rock like a mere twig in a wind storm. One hand clung to a precarious hold, but the other was torn free of the rock and dangled uselessly. His footing vanished, tossing his legs with the surge. The rucksack hung like a boulder on his back, pulling him down toward the violent sea. He swung himself around as the wave receded and found a grip for his feet as he climbed higher, but a second surge rolled over him, submerging and whirling him, tossing him like jetsam in a storm. His last grip on solid rock washed free.

An odd calm descended on him as his doom rose up to meet him from beneath the waves. He’d always known his end would come to him in a fight, but he would not give in to it until his last chance was taken from him.

He’d done his best, she would make it… He would wash away to sea with the receding wave… It was the end and he had done his best…

Dangling by one arm, his legs driven in the force, first landward then seaward, he couldn’t breathe beneath the wave, but he had done his best… Had done his best, would be at peace with it… She would be safe…

Release Day! Sins of the Heart and Excerpt

SINS OF THE HEART
Award-winning Historical Adventure Romance
by
Delle Jacobs

5 Ribbons! Romance Junkies
Samhain Publishing ~~ ISBN: 978-1-60504-035-6
Available in electronic and trade paperback editions

Find out more about this and other Delle Jacobs books at
http://dellejacobs.com

FABULOUS CONTEST!
The Most Beautiful Place on Earth!
Share your most beautiful place with photos or comments and win a fantastic prize basket of goodies from my most beautiful place on earth- Hawaii
http://dellejacobs.blogspot.com

*****

The Cornish Coast at sunrise: Two ladies, one spyglass- Two naked men dashing into the surf. One, icy-eyed Lord Edenstorm, is the man Lady Juliette hoped would never find her.

She has what he wants- the names of the gold-smuggling traitors. He doesn't know if she tells him, she dies. If she doesn't tell, she dies. If she pretends to give him what he wants, she just might stay alive.

But what happens if deception gives way to love? Is it possible to forgive the Sins of the Heart?

EXCERPT 1
The sea was yellow gold as the sun dropped toward the horizon, a quiet plane of precious metal that melted into silvered sand, and as far as the eye could see, changed from gilded sea to brilliant amber sky. All the world was silver and gold.
The horses paced across the wet sand, their steps muffled, disturbing the metallic sheen that settled back to serenity in the little rounded puddles they left behind. Only the quiet huffing of the horses’ breath and the faint screech of gulls far out from the shore broke the silence.
She had long ago loosened her bonnet and let it fall behind her, to feel the delicate breeze in her hair as they rode. Beside her rode the man with silver eyes and golden hair, his face dark in the shadow, as silent as the quiet water. It had been his idea to ride along the shore, taking advantage of the long beach created when the tide ebbed. But low tide was a curious thing that made one believe in the forever of an instant. She had come along, appeasing him because…Was it because she must keep him occupied, to keep him from making discoveries about the people she loved?
Oddly, though. She had come to expect, almost to want his companionship. Never knowing when he would turn the quiet of the moment into some strange demand that ruined all that was beautiful. Or if he would not. Perhaps today was one of those times when he would remain silent, or trade the silence for small, beautiful words.
He was, in so many ways, a strange man. He did not court her. But he shared beautiful things with her, often in silence, as if he accepted or believed they saw them the same way. She wondered if they did. Did he see and feel the colors with the sort of passion that invaded her?
They reached the headland that separated this beach from the next, and he pulled ahead. Here, their ride must come to an end.
“Don’t go there,” she said, and reached for the bridle on his bay.
“Is that a cave?” His head inclined in the direction of the sharply jagged cove tucked between two cliffs.
“It’s called Colliver’s Cove. They say it was used by Robert Colliver, but they also say Robert Colliver left Looe in his youth and never returned. Both could not be true. They also tell tales of men who drowned because a high sea came up and caught them inside. When the tide comes in, the cavern floods.”
Edenstorm leaned forward in his saddle. He planted a fist on his hip and narrowed his eyes as he studied the small, dark opening that marked the top of the cave.
“Don’t go in there,” she said again. “There are many ways to be killed on the Cornish Coast. That is one of them.”
His ghostly silver eyes studied her for a moment, then he dismounted. He held his hands up to her and she slid down, his hands catching around her waist. They turned back to the beach they had just left.
He stopped, scanning the distant horizon where the sun dropped lower in the sky and began to tinge the gold with pink.
“If you painted, how would you paint this?”
“Rapidly. Soon the sun will go down and we will never see it quite this way again.” She swept her hand in an arc along the horizon. “It is not simply golden, anywhere. It is only the way the many colors work together that makes it so.” She pointed to a distant promontory. “Look over there. Even the rock in the distance is bathed in gold, yet none of it is truly the color it seems.”
He stood there, his eyes intense and hazy, darkening to smoky pewter. She was aware of the scent that was his, so close and mingling with the salt of the sea and flesh of horse, with leather and brawn.
“I could never paint,” he said, his voice as soft as fine doeskin. “But I could never forget this. If I could paint, I'd paint you, bathed in gold, just as you are right now. The color of your hair gleams like tiny strands of golden light.”
He took one of her curls into his fingers, then slipped a hand into her hair. A tangle of longing twisted and turned in his eyes. “I’d want to capture the light shining in your hair and playing across your face, the softness of your lips.”
“How do you know they’re soft?” she whispered.
“I just do.” The pad of his thumb crossed over her lower lip. “Yes, soft.”
She gasped as his lips touched hers, but not from fear or outrage, but because she had not known her own longing. Had not known the feel of his arms circling her and pulling her close to his body where she could feel all his firmness as if she flowed into it, his kiss deepening and stroking in ways that set her afire inside. Her heart raced with the pounding of an unexplainable wildness within her, the heat she had not understood that had been building from the moment she had first seen him on the beach.