As some of you may know, I’ve been working on a novel set in Scotland in the fifteenth century during the reign of James II. I did a lot of research online, but the opportunity to check out locations and castles is just too good to miss.

I’ve never been to Scotland before. I’ve been an armchair traveller in my research and worried about how much I had possibly got wrong.

Scotland is cooler than I expected, and I’d packed light cotton dresses and thongs (footwear thongs, not string underwear). My first mistake. This did not augur well…

Our first castle, Glengarry Castle Hotel, is the one we’re staying in, although it’s far too recent to be of use to my book. Still, the romance of sleeping in a four-poster bed set my mood for some exploring.

Just up the driveway is Invergarry Castle. It’s a ruin, of course, and small, but I spent a very informative half hour walking around it.

The castle in my novel is a small one on the edge of the loch, and part of one wall on the loch side has fallen. The castle is away from the village and surrounded by moorland, and then forest. Through the forest is a path to another village.

Invergarry Castle is also a small castle, about fifteenth century, on the edge of a loch. It has a similar internal layout to the castle in my novel. So much of it has collapsed that we can see inside it. It’s like looking at a child’s dollhouse with the front opened up so you can see the rooms inside. It has a keep with four levels, a large Great Hall and kitchen/storage areas. There appears to be an undercroft, perhaps also used for storage.

As we stood there studying this structure (through a fence — the castle is in poor condition) I realised the value of research. I had not heard of or seen anything on this castle before we stood there, staring. But it fits! However, it can really only be studied close-up. If we had not been staying where we are, and even that only through a family recommendation, we would never have found this place.

We drove further up the road to a more well-known ruined Scottish castle, Urquhart Castle. While it is much bigger than the castle in my novel, it has features, which I have also described, in my imaginary castle. Urquhart Castle is also on the loch edge; it’s also got a four-storey keep and narrow spiral stairs in places. Some of the rooms I described in my novel are there in Urquhart Castle, almost exactly as I have seen them in my mind. The kitchen, the storage room, and the steward’s quarters — it was wonderful to explore.

The nearby forest in my novel would these days be described as old Calydonian. There is not a lot of it left, but there are people here who have shown me the types of trees, the density of the growth and the way the timber would have been used.

A castle supported a town but it also needed a town to support it. A castle plus town was a symbiosis that led to mutual growth and advantage, although numerous kings in succession did their best to keep control of the keeps, so to speak. The last thing kings needed was any small area getting ambitions of autonomy. A castle needed to be defensible, it needed to be maintained and the inhabitants fed and supplied.

I will be studying more castles.

My novel’s castle was not a ruin by any means, despite having a damaged wall. There are modern rebuilds of castles that are also a way of studying what might have been seen around a castle, back in the day.

I’m really looking forward to getting to grips with it all.

But meanwhile, dinner in this castle is imminent. We’ve worked up an appetite in our research today and well deserve something warming, by the fireside, in the castle by the edge of the loch.

Heathrow is huge. Despite this, the transit to the fresh air outside only took half an hour. We waited in the cool evening in the long queue for a cab. The distinctive round, black (mostly) vehicles lined up and efficiently moved people and luggage away from the terminal.

When our turn came our cabbie loaded our two large bags onto the front seat and we clambered in to the main passenger compartment with our two cabin bags. Plenty of room, these London cabs are like working-class limousines. Comfortable and very functional.

It’s a long drive from Heathrow to the centre of London and we chatted to the cabbie on the way.

We broke the ice, and I think earned his respect, when we mentioned our preference for the London cabs over the über experiences we’ve had elsewhere. London cabbies deserve a lot of respect for the hoops they have to jump through just to be allowed the job. Most important of all is ‘The Knowledge’, a test to prove how well they know London and all its landmarks. Every street, every hospital, police station, railway station, major bus terminals, hotels — everything. A London cabbie has to be able to take you right where you need to go effectively and efficiently. And, as we found, with the option of great conversation.

As we drove past the glorious architecture of London’s Natural History Museum, our cabbie said, “I’ll give you a fiver if you can tell me what type of architecture that is.”

All I knew, is that it’s not Gothic. To answer the question, it’s Romanesque. He kept his fiver.

We talked about movies, our favourite comedians and the Aussie flood that spilled into London in the Sixties as part of the Cultural Cringe. He’d not heard that term before, and we rattled off names of Aussies now famous in the UK for having gone to London as a sort of post-uni gap year, and never truly left. Germaine Greer, Clive James, Barry Humphries. He’d not recalled Richard Neville but when I mentioned the Oz trial, he knew that one. A young Geoffrey Robertson was assisting on that case back in the day. We discussed the images of Rupert the Bear in various stages of undress which led to those obscenity trials.

We talked about Oliver Sachs, about psychology, about neuroplasticity. About raising kids. 

Amid him pointing out places to see — ‘that building there is much better to go to the top for a view, it’s free. Forget the expensive touristy hype of some of the others. And you can get great sushi in the restaurant at the top’ — we talked about movies, about Australia, about London and about politicians. About Brexit, as well as Adam Hills’ determination to not shave until Brexit happens and how he now looks like a villain from Wolf Creek.

The cabbie was amused at my collecting photos of places named on the Monopoly board game. ‘Bet you didn’t get Old Kent Rd though,’ he commented.

We compared politicians, and shared a lot of laughs. I described how some of the phrases that our Aussie Prime Ministers each will have follow them. When I mentioned Tony Abbott’s claim to be the ‘suppository of all wisdom’ our cabbie almost lost it. ‘Stop it — you’re killing me!’ he chortled, wiping his eyes.

Another cabbie pulled up beside us and pointed out that our cab’s front passenger door was not quite shut. The adjacent cabbie leaned over and obligingly opened and then fully shut our cab’s door while we waited at the lights. ‘Cheers, mate!’ our bloke called to him.

The drive was a long one, we’d had thick traffic towards the end, but the time had been an enjoyable introduction to London. When we got to the hotel he helped us out with our bags, pointed out the hotel door and was on his way.

We never even got his name, but we felt like old friends.

We’ve just had three days in Hong Kong. This island state was a British colony until 1997 when, by agreement from the time of the original lease, it was handed back to the Chinese government.

There were concerns expressed back then by the Hong Kong-ese that their much valued freedoms and democracy would be at risk. Some officials warned in 1997 that freedoms would risk being slowly eroded over time. While Hong Kong has continued to thrive as a commercial trade centre, it is no longer the largest shipping harbour in the world. Only third largest now.

Our first morning here was Sunday. We’d arrived too late the previous day to organise our usual half-day city tour, but we scored space that afternoon. We had a choice — the Lentau Island tour, or the Hong Kong Island tour. With the prospect of damp weather settling in for Monday, we chose Lentau for Sunday as it would mean a better chance of seeing the giant Buddha statue without fog in the way.

And so it proved. It was a very enjoyable tour, but on the way to the last stop, the tour guide Elvis was profusely apologetic. ‘There is a demonstration on Hong Kong Island today. It is peaceful, but the traffic is disrupted. More people have come out onto the streets than were anticipated. My tour company is keeping me up to date with events, but those of you on this bus who are staying on Hong Kong Island may do better to come back to Kowloon and have dinner there, then catch the ferry back. Otherwise you risk being stuck in big traffic jams.’

Someone asked Elvis why the demonstrations.

‘It is about extradition. A man from Hong Kong took his pregnant girlfriend to Taiwan and killed her there. Then he came back to Hong Kong. The girlfriend was also from Hong Kong but the murder happened in Taiwan so he cannot be charged in Hong Kong for the murder. He could be charged in Taiwan but there is no extradition treaty. The man is in jail, but only for fraud because he was using the girlfriend’s bank accounts.’

According to Elvis, extradition was needed for justice in this case, but people in Hong Kong wondered if the risk was too high. Whatever Elvis said about this, however, downplayed concerns and focussed on immediate impacts for us. The route back to the hotels would have to change. ‘Nothing to see here, we’ll move on another route.’

We came back via Kowloon which is where we were staying anyway. Elvis appeared to not even break a sweat but his eyes were a little anxious.

That night we ate in a local eatery which had Hong Kong TV on the wall. No English, but the footage we could see showed the immense crowds. But then the footage showed the evening change in the demonstration — attempts to enter the buildings to occupy them in protest. We caught each other’s eyes over the dumplings. This was no longer peaceful, although there was little evidence of actual violence to people.

Back in the hotel we tuned in to TV Australia. Much of the feed was from ABC News and what we saw was a much clearer view of events. Tear gas, people running, blood…

Demonstration organisers claimed over a million people attending — a significant proportion of Hong Kong’s population. Apparently Hong Kong authorities were saying only a quarter of that number had turned out.

Next day turned out wet and foggy, for our morning tour to Hong Kong Island with a different tour guide named Joe. He told us a bit more about the demonstration, but only mentioned the peaceful bit. ‘Over a million people came out. Hong Kong has a population of seven and a half million. People are concerned about extradition and what it could mean.’

In mentioning the number as a million, he was matching the statement from the demonstration organisers, not the official government statement. He showed us where his own sympathies lie. He said little more, although he did tell us a lot about Hong Kong’s population density — the highest in the world at 6,300 people per square kilometre. Hong Kong is small in area, so they build up. High up.

Then that evening we watched TV again, and found out more. Apparently, the distress is because in order to be able to extradite this Hong Kong murderer to Taiwan, not only does the extradition treaty with Taiwan have to be put in place, but part of it has to recognise Chinese sovereignty over Taiwan. That is the game-changer and it opens the door for China to apply controls over Hong Kong’s current autonomy.

The demonstrations will continue. This is deeply distressing for the residents of Hong Kong. But the government appears adamant and will not budge. They are steamrollering ahead to do China’s bidding. This one legal extradition case has led the way for China to put formal controls in place which many fear will begin to remove Hong Kong’s sovereignty.

Truth here appears to be increasingly a luxury. Hong Kong has enjoyed a lot of freedoms and autonomy since 1997, but from our arrival we observed surveillance. In the airport lounge we could access wi-fi but the terms and conditions told us that browsing data is recorded. We felt the strong scrutiny of a foreign government. We’ve heard the stories of people disappearing, suspected kidnapped. There was no mention at all of the recent anniversary of Tiananmen Square. Despite the freedoms, what people say here, on television and to one another, is already carefully guarded.

The people of Hong Kong are generous, welcoming and hard-working. They love their home and are intensely protective of their freedoms. But when truth becomes relative, when secrecy becomes a way to control information, then where is freedom and justice?

We are seeing this here, in action. We need to also look to our own lives where secrecy and re-casting the truth is being done, ostensibly for good reason. But a good reason today can be a bad reason tomorrow. Openness and honesty is the only way to go forward.

We logged on to free wi-fi in the hotel and at the airport, but the Terms and Conditions made it clear — the search history and activity log was being monitored ‘for quality control of service’.

We will not be in Hong Kong when the bill is presented. I will probably not be in Hong Kong when I post this.

But I will be watching.

STOP PRESS 15-6-19
While we were in Hong Kong I sent out a few emails. The ones to Yahoo addresses bounced on the Sunday and Monday morning. And this morning I have just read that there was a DDoS attack, originating from mainland china, on a Messaging app called Telegram which was used by protestors to organise the demonstration with low risk of surveillance. When Telegram failed due to the overload caused by the DDoS, it forced organisers to use more porous methods of communication, thereby ‘outing’ their involvement. And, along the way, my problems with certain emails were symptomatic.

We’re in the air somewhere over Indonesia, about two hours out of Hong Kong. I just set the TV screen to maps setting, and the blue globe of the Earth grew in my field of vision to show our location and route. But as it zoomed in, it reminded me of that ‘Earth Rise’ photo taken from space, from that first shot of blessed relief as Apollo 8, the first craft to enter lunar orbit, emerged from radio shadow from behind the moon.

Why is this relevant? Well, it’s all to do with why we’re flying to the UK now, at this time, this year. It comes back to Neil Armstrong. You may notice we have the same surname.

Fifty years ago this coming July, Neil Armstrong was the first man to step onto the moon, closely followed by Buzz Aldrin. And let’s never forget Michael Collins up there in lunar orbit in Columbia. I always felt sorry for him, the wallflower not invited to the party. But someone had to stay behind in lunar orbit and keep house so the guys could get back and they could all get home. Collins, the designated driver, the chauffeur waiting outside with the engine on idle. It must have been lonely up there, so very alone and wondering if it was all going to work out, or would he have to fly back alone, knowing the others would never make it back. Anything could have gone wrong, the whole program had been so rushed. They went to the wire on landing with fuel allowance. They could have snagged a rock, sunk in silt, lost pressure — anything. Even a fall while doing that (later banned) kangaroo hop.

But they made it, there are no spoilers here.

We just watched the movie, ‘First Man’. It added an extra thrill to have the imagery on the screen of the vibrations of flight in various experimental developmental ‘pilot’ (sorry, I couldn’t resist) projects all leading to the moon. The movement of the plane I’m sitting in made it all feel very real. They even had a warning before the movie, in case it might upset nervous passengers to view images that included deaths in tests and flights, as well as a spectacular crash on Earth of a test lunar module from which Neil Armstrong barely walked away.

It’s a long film, but that’s okay. This is a long flight. As was Apollo 11, fifty years ago.

And fifty years ago, a group of Armstrongs in Scotland decided it was about time to get back in touch with Armstrongs around the world. After all, one had just left his footprints on the moon! The Armstrong Clan Association was formed that day on July 20, 1969.

I married an Armstrong, and embraced the family heritage of Scottish culture. I’m a Sassenach by birth, myself. But they’re a forgiving lot, these descendants from Scottish border raiders…

A few years after we married we made contact with the Armstrong Clan Association and joined up. We were NSW representatives at one point, until we needed to take a break when the kids were little. But now we are the Australian representatives of the Armstrong Clan Association. Jeff’s clan work is mainly acting as a clearing house, keeping the records. Family tree data is being gathered for all members and is held in one great archive back in Scotland. From this expanding data, long-lost links have been found. New technologies and genome work is finding more connections. It’s an amazing ride. Funding through a generous donor to the Armstrong Clan Association has bought and restored an important building for the Armstrongs, Gilnockie Tower in Dumfries.

Every two years, there has been an Armstrong clan reunion. Of course, we could never go. The kids were little, we had other responsibilities and it is expensive. But we’ve been saving up. I’ve already talked a little about last year’s journey. It was going to be combined with this year’s clan reunion, until life added in some extra adventures and reasons to go earlier.

But this year, it’s the Armstrong Clan Association’s fifty year reunion. Because fifty years ago, a man called Armstrong was the first human being to set foot on another world.

And this year, we’ll be in Dumfries for the reunion. We’ll share legends of the past, and look to the excitement of the future. One big family.

It’s three days before departure for the UK and we’re still sorting out paperwork. It all started on 1 July last year, our last day in Chania on Crete.

We don’t tend to go hog-wild spending on souvenirs, but we walked past a rack of toy guns, non-working, highly ornamented models of seventeenth century flintlock pistols, reminiscent of Pirates of the Caribbean.

I took a photo of the rack and messaged a couple of young men of my close acquaintance who are into historical re-enactment. “Boys — if you want one, tell me which one and we’ll bring them back for you.” They were selling at 70 Euros each. 

We bought two after the man in the shop said that because these are so obviously toys, replicas of old powder-loading piratical flintlocks from centuries past, we’d have no problems taking them home, even to Australia, as long as we carried them in our check-in luggage destined for the plane’s hold. Our baggage allowance was already close to the wind. These toy guns were like large paperweights.

We flew to Rome with the toy guns in our hold bags. No problems. Good. From Rome, we travelled overland by train across Europe. No problems. We were cursing the added 5 Kg weight, though, especially where we had to lug those bags up stairs or drag them over cobbles. In Venice one bag was damaged by an over-zealous hotel porter dragging it upside down in the rush to the station. We found the damage in Austria. There we asked about posting the toy guns back home and found that because of the weight, it would cost 80 Euros each which was more than they had cost. We were beginning to regret our weighty purchase.

In Paris heading for London by train Jeff went to check seating and found we had to pass a Customs check. No problem. Then yes, problem. Some suspicious shapes had come up on the X-ray scanner. The guns! And … a land mine?

The guns still had their shop label and were wrapped in bubble wrap. The Customs inspectors unwrapped them partly and looked down the barrels. Blind. Absolutely no way these could ever be considered real guns, they said.

And the ‘land mine’? It turned out to be the mount for the GPS. “Free to go,” they said.

Despite arriving two hours early we had missed our train and waited for the next one.

After another fortnight in the UK it was finally time to head home from London. We’d been away a while and looked forward to a touch of luxury at the airport lounge. We planned a leisurely dinner with our hold bags checked in and only our cabin bags to weigh us down for the rest of the trip. With the guns and the landmine-shaped GPS mount safely stowed for the duration, it should be plain sailing, we thought. We arrived at the airport three hours before the flight, to allow for early check-in and a relaxed dinner.

We had two large hold bags, and the smaller (damaged) cabin bag containing the toy guns and GPS mount that we also checked in for the hold. We still had a cabin bag each as carry-on. As the hold bags moved onto the conveyor, Jeff remarked, “I’m glad to see those toy guns safely into the hold. They shouldn’t be a problem now.”

The staff member was fast on the uptake. She leapt for the bag, and missed as it sailed up the conveyor and through the rubber strip curtain.

She reached for the phone. “Security? We’ve just been notified … yes. Oh, it’s flagged already?” She covered the mouthpiece and said, Sorry, we didn’t catch it in time. But you told us before it hit the first alarm. So probably no charges will be laid.” Then back into the phone. “Yes? Level 2 now? Oh, dear …”

Within minutes we’d gone to the top alert level. Level 4.

Head of airline security arrived. A no-nonsense burly Scots bloke called Jock. “Ye’ll have a wee while to wait,” he told us. He was stern to begin with but soon softened, perhaps once he realised we were not the usual run-of-the-mill arms smugglers. Jeff headed off to put through some paperwork for an item of jewellery we were bringing home (we had decided to put it in our cabin bag to keep it safe). “Back in a few minutes,” he said.

Two security guards arrived with the problem bag and Jock asked formally, “Is this yours?”

I nodded.
“What sort of guns are they? You do realize that they have to be seized and destroyed?”

“They’re fake, they’re models of seventeenth century flintlock pistols,” I blubbed.

I made to reach for the bag to show him and was not quite smacked away. “Don’t open it. Sorry. Not until the police get here.” He handed me a tissue.

By now I was thinking about Schappelle Corby being asked to identify her boogie board bag in Bali …

I watched the boys in blue arriving across the full width of the building. Jock the security guy was now joined by Rhys the Welshman and Brian the English bobby. We now only needed Paddy the Irishman for the full UK collectable set. And no sign of the return of Jeff the Aussie husband …

The police explained that they had to take the guns. But the guns could be collected from the police station within 48 hours. After that, they would have to be destroyed.

“But they’re toys!” I exclaimed.

“We get called out for plastic water pistols,” they told me. “Even in the hold bags. And those have to be seized and destroyed too.”

“I bet that makes for some unhappy parents,” I said.

“Aye, about eight times a day on average,” Jock said. “And it’s my job to soothe them down.”

I was upset. I hate guns as a rule, but these were toys, models, and very pretty. Ornaments for looking at. I hated the thought of them being destroyed.

I dialled the relative we’d been visiting. Any chance they could come and take the toy guns from us? Not for two weeks, I was told.

Jock handed me another tissue.

Meanwhile I tried calling Jeff. He was still in a queue. It seemed that there was a flood of tourists trying to go back to their countries with large amounts of jewellery and not all of them had their papers in order. “There’s about fifty still ahead of me,” he said.

I checked my watch. We’d already been here two hours. One hour before the flight. The place was filling with other passengers, all looking at us curiously as they checked in their bags with no problems.

The police allowed me to open my bag in front of them and remove the guns. They had a look at them and said, “We understand now, they’re very unlikely looking weapons. But the law’s the law. We can give your relative two weeks to collect them from us. But after that, they have to go for destruction.”

“Lets go find that stray husband o’ yours,” Jock said, hand on my elbow. “I got a good idea where he’ll be.” He grabbed one of our good cabin bags while I took the other.

We turned a corner to see a long queue of people snaking around the concourse from a small room. I couldn’t see Jeff. It turned out he had finally got to within a couple of people from the front of the line. Jock handed me over, waved goodbye and headed off.

Just then it was Jeff’s turn at the window. His paperwork was in order, but the bloke behind the counter had clearly had a bad afternoon. “Do you have the item?” he asked. “I must see the item to make sure it tallies with the description as filled in by the seller.”

And we so nearly hadn’t had it in the cabin bag! If the bags and I had still been caught up in security …

At the security check-in I felt jinxed. I triggered the alarms and was singled out for a body scan. I was more fortunate than the man behind me — he got pulled aside for a strip search. Considering we’d already had to disrobe significantly by this stage, I wondered how much further the poor guy would have to strip.

By the time we got through it all to the lounge, we didn’t even have time for a coffee.

So for us, that was Gatwick. Level 4 security alert. Police called.

For the record, our relative in England collected the guns. Meanwhile back in Australia, I worked to get them home.

It wasn’t easy. It took six months to find out that bringing them in by plane would be easier than posting them. To post them, we’d have to get a gun dealer involved (another A$150 to the cost). Plus the cost of international post for nearly five kilos of brass and carved timber. We’d have to get licenses and permits, all costing money. And still it was fifty-fifty that Customs would seize them. Information was contradictory.

Finally I was put on to a section of the NSW police dealing with gun licences. “Do you have photos?” I was asked.

One photo. The one I took in the shop back in Chania, the one showing all the guns in the rack. And since the guns stayed wrapped in bubble wrap after we bought them, I can’t even remember which ones we got.

But it was good news, the cop told me. “They’re described officially as imitation antique flintlock pistols. No need for licensing. No need for permits. But you do need paperwork to bring them in — fill in these forms.”

The plan now was, to get the guns on our return trip to UK (the one coming up) and bring them back in in our luggage, WITH the paperwork.

Then the bombshell. “Of course, you’ll need level 2 storage.”

Level 2 storage, I learned, means a gun safe bolted to the floor. You can own these models, it seems, but if you take them out to look at them you’re breaking the law.

“But they’re toys!” I said.

“But they look real,” was the reply. “Technically, you could rob a bank with them.”

I thought about the possibility that someone would try to rob a bank with a real flintlock pistol (and these are not real, the barrel is blind). One shot. They you would have to re-load by pouring powder in, then some shot or whatever, then take aim to fire again. In which time, you would have been jumped by any other person present, including the arthritic granny in the corner (no, wait — that’s me).

You can’t argue with the law. While gun dealers were saying, “You don’t need a gun safe for those,” the cops were saying otherwise. And it’s the cops who would press charges.

So, three days before we leave for England. And this is where we are up to with the guns. Excuse me. Imitation antique flintlock pistols.

Meanwhile our relative in England wants to know when were going to take them off her hands, they’re cluttering up her hall stand …

After all this, Jeff’s idea of chucking them in the nearest skip in the UK is understandable.

However, I had a brainwave. Re-enactor groups! The UK is loaded with them! Last week I put out a call on social media. Within hours, I got a response. Now it looks like we’ll have to collect the guns and somehow get them to Wales.

I’ve never been to Wales …

We’re getting ready to travel again. Only a couple of weeks to go. So much to do!

I know I sound like a seasoned traveller, but this is something new to me. Apart from road trips in Australia, mostly to visit family, we’ve spent decades not going anywhere. An armchair traveller. I’ve written based on what I’ve read.

I’ve already mentioned our trip thirty years ago, to Greece. That was also to visit family —not ours, but they have become our family. My two Greek mythology novels began as a single short story, stimulated by an idea I had while eating a sandwich under a peppercorn tree at the ancient Minoan palace of Knossos. But I needed to go back, to add in some detail. A luxury, but if we were going to Crete to find our friends, then we had to include some time in Heraklion for Knossos and the museum.

I’m thinking back to last year, and the ordeal by fire we inflicted ourselves, in our zeal to learn how to travel. What to do, and what not to do.

Apart from visiting family (adopted and genetic) We wanted to catch up on all we’ve missed out on for so many years. I’ve got books I’ve written which I wanted to research in more detail, and this guided our choice of destination.

We wanted to see so much, and we planned nine weeks—an extravagant amount of time indeed. But when you are flying to the other side of the world, you make it worth your while.

This time we have obligations in UK and France, with more limited days. So we’ll pack in what we can and remember what we learned.

Last year…we arrived in Athens late at night, after 25 hours in the air (including transit in Dubai—never again) and minimal sleep. We took one semi-hysterical selfie in Syntagma Square and went to bed.

The next day we went exploring the Plaka—the old part of Athens, with its tiny lanes, curious shops and very Greek graffiti. Around the corner from our hotel was the Greek Orthodox cathedral of Athens. We went in and lit three candles—one for my father-in-law Red, named Pedro by the villagers; for his friend Apostolis and for my Greek-Australian friend Tina. Red and Apostolis lived long lives despite the war. Tina was brutally murdered while young, with so much life left to live. We travelled to other churches and lit more candles for them wherever we went. This trip was with their memory alongside us. Greece is a place of modern and ancient, you can sense the spirit of the people going back for millennia. Every stone could sing of legends. The concept of “rock god” means something entirely different in Greece.

Because of my Greek mythology novels, I had to visit the places I have written about. The Acropolis was inhabited in mythological times (fourth millennium BC) but was little more than a sanctuary temple on a hill. What we know of today, the marble marvel, was built by Pericles around 450 BC. By that time, my Minoans had risen and fallen; the Myceneans who followed them were also long gone. But the Athenians outlasted them.

At the foot of the Acropolis sits the new museum which we explored thoroughly. In there I found models of the Acropolis through the millennia. My eyes went to the earliest one—this was the Athens of Aegeus and Theseus. Here were the city walls, the foundations of what would have been the palace, originally built by Cecrops, grandfather of Aegeus. This was the period for my first two novels. Here it was real. Where did Talos fall to his death? Where was Daedalus caught, trying to hide the body in a sack? Where did Aegeus sacrifice a dove to Aphrodite to pray for a son?

I am always amazed and delighted by the skill and artistry I find in ancient places. We tend to think of people of the past as being inferior to us; lacking our modern technology or capability. But we must never forget that despite the thousands of years of time that separate us, we have more in common with these ancient peoples, than we have differences. They are us, just separated by time.

To be there, to walk the same paths, to breath the same air—inspirational!

family pilgrimage to Crete

In 1989 we were in Greece for three weeks, with three children. We travelled with my father-in-law who had spent time in Greece during WWII, notably on Crete as a POW on the run. With my parents-in-law we wound our way up into the hills of Crete, to a small mountain village. We’d only gone for lunch, we thought, but we stayed for three days. There we met the man who had become a lifelong friend of my father-in-law, when he and a couple of friends were on the run. Such adventures!

We met the old man, his wife and other nearby family. They took us to meet their family in Paleorchora, a nearby seaside town, and we enjoyed lunch with them in their taverna. Afterwards I spent time with my three children (8, 6 and not quite 4) and three of the Greek children, the oldest of whom, aged 12, could speak a little English. But children need no common language, play is universal.

Time passed, our children grew, my father-in-law died. We wrote to let the old friend know. We always intended to go back one day. My mother-in-law grew old and frail. When she died we found an unopened letter from the old friend in Greece and realised there was a story to uncover. But where were the family? Surely not still in that mountain village. The old man had told us in that long-lost letter to seek out his family. Were his son and children still in Paleorchora?

Social media stepped in. A search of Facebook for the surname came up with one individual only. He might not even be a relative. I sent a message in English; no response. I used Google translate to put my message into Greek; no response. I reached out via Messenger to a Facebook friend in Athens (we’d played Scrabble together) to check that my translation made sense.

My friend in Athens said, “Yes, what you wrote is very easy to understand. But I must know more—what a story!”

My friend tracked the family down through the Greek phone book and my small clues. Their first response was, “When do you arrive?” The old man had always said, “Watch for the family from Australia. They will come. If not this generation, then the next.”

The second response was a Friend request on Facebook—a technology which had not existed on our first visit. Yes, the old man had died, but his son Eftichi was looking after the farm in the mountains while living in the larger coastal town of Paleorchora. Eftichi’s children all nearby too.

So there we were in June 2018 making our way through Greece to meet the now-grown children we’d met for just a few hours, thirty years earlier.

It’s one hell of a story.

There is so much more to tell, of my father-in-law’s experiences in WWII. After a year hiding out in the hills with his new Greek friends, he had to move on but was recaptured. He spent the rest of the war in a number of different POW camps in Europe. He experienced dreadful things. But his Greek village friends were on his mind—were they safe?

After the war, he wrote to his friend and didn’t hear anything for some time. Then a reply—his friend had just been away doing his own military service.

The men wrote to each other for the rest of their lives. My father-in-law went back to visit his old friend several times, taking us on his last trip.

In the time in between, I had become an award-winning writer, and it was particularly my stories of Greece and “our Greek family” that led to this. This journey was even more meaningful.

We had a GPS this time, making our drive easier to navigate. The roads were even better than we remembered, but there were sad reminders all the way of the tragedies, as well as triumphs of the Greek indomitable spirit. We drove through a number of places marked with “martyred village of…” and we know there are likely to be more that are unmarked, buried under the soil. But then we drove into Kandanos. My father-in-law had taken us to Kandanos and told us about it—the village had objected to German occupation and in the skirmish, some German soldiers were killed. The reprisals were brutal – women and children were herded into the town hall and machine-gunned. The buildings were razed. The village was to be eradicated.

Yet here it is. Beautiful, rebuilt, flourishing.

They say that the best revenge is success.

We drove on to the coastal town of Paleorchora, found the family, and realised that in so many ways, we were home. Whenever we could, we went back to the mountain village that was so achingly familiar, and helped (or watched) the goats and sheep being milked. My Greek is minimal. Eftichi’s English is less. But sitting on his balcony looking over the farm and the mountain village, drinking greek coffee and eating his mizithra (an indescribably perfect light cheese, made from the milk, the best in Crete) needed no language.

In the evenings we sat in Paleorchora with his children and their friends joining us, listening to their stories and sharing what we knew.

One evening the faces of the young people were serious, at times with tears, as they related stories from their grandparents of what they experienced. A husband and sons being asked by invading soldiers to step outside for a moment. Maybe to act as guides? The invading officer imperiously demanding a meal be cooked for him. The terrified woman complying – the rule of hospitality dictated it, plus fear for what would happen to her or her men if she refused. The woman asking where her men were. The officer waving away her concerns. “Don’t worry about them.” The woman later finding her sons and her husband dead in a ditch…

So many stories… here, every tree, every rock, every lined face and even the children, carry the stories of the generations.

I have started to write about it. But so much was never told. All we have are tantalising clues. But the story, as always, beckons me on.

We will go back. We have to go back. Just as I must write.

Time for practical research…

Maybe I’m crazy (perish the thought, I hear you say) but I feel it’s time to spread the word. My word. Or words, actually.

Good writing is about research, we are so often told. I’ve been an armchair researcher for too many years and now it’s time to go see for myself.

It’s a big world out there and every street corner has a story to tell.

We actually did our first big trip in 2018. We had a lot of people to visit, places to see and I had writing to be done.

We’re now in the last few weeks’ rundown to doing it again—on a slightly smaller scale, this time. We’ll travel, we’ll see people and places—and I’ll write. And research…

I have several books in this so bear with me, follow the blog trail and let me think at you. With pictures…

You can also add to my inspiration.

Hang on for the ride, it could get a bit bumpy at times. But never boring!

Talk soon!

Helen Armstrong

“And so it begins.”

This is going to be about research, travel, and writing. Yes, I have plans. But as John Lennon said, “Life is what happens when you’re busy making plans.”