Patricia Wilson always manages to transport me to the most breath-taking locations and thanks to her descriptive writing style everything is so easy to visualise and it isn't long before I get itchy feet and want to head off to the setting of her books. In her new novel we are heading to Santorini, a place I had longed to visit so this one is pulling me in already!
As part of my tour today I have an extract from Secrets of Santorini, so if you have never read one of Patricia's remarkable books you can get a feel for her writing style and for those fans who have adored her previous novel you can see what a treat you are on for.
CHAPTER 1 BRIDGET
Santorini, 29 years ago.
Remembering his nightly introduction to those stories of splendour made me smile.
‘Close your eyes and imagine,’ he would whisper dramati- cally. “You, the amazing Queen Thira, rule over your ten kings and an entire nation. Beloved by your people in a happy, wealthy land where bellies are full, you can sleep in late, and nobody wants for anything. Outside your marble palace, with its roof of silver and floors of intricate mosaics, swallows duck and dive between majestic lilies. The sun shines on a landscape painted with aromatic herbs and drifts of lilac crocus. From a crystal sea, bright-eyed dolphins leap into the warm air, laughing in their clicking, effervescent way. “Hello, my Queen,” they cry in rapid Morse-code before diving back into the mysterious deep.’
And me at eight years old, soaking up every word, allowing Uncle Peter’s tales to wash away the reality of our humble Dublin home and my poor, dead parents. Those stories kept me alive in my darkest hours, helped me rise above the heartbreaking truth of my young life, and they ignited a passion for the classics, ancient history, and the Greeks.
While my classmates were destined to be shop workers, waitresses, nuns or nurses, I imagined digging deep into the Greek soil, unearthing proof of a past worthy of my uncle’s chronicles of Atlantis.
I blinked the dream away, turning my attention to the morn- ing’s chores and the day ahead.
‘Tommy, will you rinse the mugs before we leave?’ I called through the front door. ‘And close the shutters or we'll roast in here later.’
He lowered his newspaper and raised his greying eyebrows. ‘My God, you’re a bossy mare, Bridget! Can’t a man have a blessed moment to himself?’
‘I’ve things to do. Get a move on.’
Outside, I turned on the hose, splashed water over my bare feet, and saturated a terracotta urn that overflowed with salmon geraniums. When I soaked the warm concrete terrace, the sur- rounding air cooled - delicious - but I knew it wouldn't last. Enjoying the moment, I stopped and gazed out across Santorini’s caldera. My dream returned, a flashback to a time drenched in opulence and drama on this island that had become our home.
The view from the patio took my breath, never ceasing to amaze me. Tommy and I were living the dream, as we had for almost twenty years.
A cruise ship slid towards the quaint port of Kato Fira, three hundred metres below the house. Santorini was the fashionable destination for a new breed of tourists. Wealthy cruisers arrived daily, much to the glee of shopkeepers and tradesmen. ‘The sleek white liner left a dissipating fan of ripples in its wake. I imag- ined excited, middle-aged, middle-class passengers gazing at the tall cliffs topped by a town of church domes, bell towers, and canvas-sailed windmills.
A sudden racket made me turn. The local donkeys, hooves clattering against the cobbles, appeared in the side road and headed for the six hundred steps down to the port. A sight the tourists adored. Many cruise-ship passengers enjoyed the cliff- climbing ride in the saddle of an unfortunate beast. Through the heat of the day, donkeys lugged overweight visitors with their cameras and guidebooks up to the town.
I caught the eye of a young jenny and fancied we shared a sec- ond of understanding. Do donkeys dream? I mused. Green pas- tures, shady trees, and buckets of clean water? A life of toil in the raging sun probably left them too exhausted for flights of fantasy.
The herdsman cried, “Yah! Yah!’ and swiped the animal’s rump with a stinging switch. The sound took me back to a day at school when I received three cane strokes. That evening, Uncle Peter caught me crying under my bed.
‘Come out from there, me little colleen,’ he coaxed. ‘Now tell your worried uncle what’s causing those terrible tears.’
The reason for my beating was long forgotten, but I still recalled Uncle Peter’s solution.
‘Straighten your back and stretch your neck, regal as the queen, now. Always remember this.’ He tapped the side of my head with two fingers. “You have the good Queen Thira in there to guide you. Call on her for help whenever you need it, right? Do as she would and you'll be fine, my lovely.’
From that day on, Queen Thira was my soulmate and con- stant companion.
The memory made me smile.
‘All done,’ Tommy said, rushing out. “Look at you standing there, away with the fairies while I slave indoors. Are you ready to go at all, or will I get another chance to read the news while you daydream?’
I grinned, loving the Dublin lilt that had never left his words despite our decades living far from the Emerald Isle. “You can put the bikes outside the gate while I lock the door.’ I gathered my auburn hair, tied it in a knot, then slipped my trainers on.
I'll catch you up!’ I called propping my bike against a lamp- post in the main street. Tommy lifted an arm as he continued down the hill and out of town.
Minutes later, with my rucksack on my back, I freewheeled after him, heading towards the archaeological site. With the breeze in my face and the sun on my back, anticipation gathered in the pit of my stomach. What would we find on this glori- ous morning? Would this be a day of great discovery when the archaeological site chose to reveal its secrets?
In a flash, my mind went back to the most exciting moment in our kafenio. A local described a decorated terracotta urn, found by a shepherd on the hillside. When that same pot was brought to us and we suspected it was early Minoan, we per- suaded - bribed - the shepherd to show us its location. A series of events followed, leading to a carbon-dating result that con- firmed our suspicions. The urn was Minoan. Six months later, two weeks after our wedding, we received official permission to dig. On that same day, we paced the barren area with a surveyor and knocked rods into the soil, marking the boundaries.
I recalled grinning stupidly as Tommy and I broke the earth together, each of us with one foot on the spade, my adorable professor staring at the ground expectantly as we lifted the first sod.
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