I think I should talk about this movie and the book because is my favorite movie/book and it’s one of the best love stories ever. The movie is a lot different from the book, but I still think it’s great and the director and the actors made a great job.The book is about a woman called Holly who lives a horrible depresion after her husband dies of a brain tumor and she’s completely lost without him, she doesn’t want to live anymore. They were perfect for each other and they were completely in love. One day, Holly’s mother calls her and tells her there’re letters for her in her house. Holly discovers those letters were written by Gerry, that’s his way of help her and let her know that it doesn’t matter he’s dead, he will always be around her and watching over her. Those letters help Holly to continue her life without Gerry and to change her life.Gerry is the best husband of the world!!! I want a Gerry!!!

Here’s the first letter Gerry writes to Holly:

Dear Holly:

I don’t know where you are or the time when you exactly are going to read this. I just hope my letter finds you healthy and safe. It hasn’t been so long since you wisper to me that you couldn’t go on alone, and I want to tell you can, Holly.
You’re strong and brave and you will be able to get through this. We’ve shared some beautiful moments and you have made my life… You have been my life. I have nothing to regret about. But I’m just one chapter of your life and there’ll be a lot more. Keep our amazing memories, but, please, don’t be afraid of create others.
Thank you for made me the honour of being my wife. Because of everything, I will always be thankful.
I want you to know that when you need I’ll be with you. I will always love you,

Your husband and best friend,

Gerry.

I love this book and I can’t help crying everytime I see the movie, read the book or listen to the soundtrack. I just can’t help it, and it’s very difficult to make me cry, but I don’t know why, this story touches me.

Amelia,Antonia,Aurelia,Achaia,

Alexia, Alia, Alexandria,Cornelia,Cassia,

Cassiopeia,Catia,Celestia,Claudia, Clelia,

Cloelia,Calithyia,Caelia,Cacalia,Caesaria,Celia,

Cordelia,Castalia,Cecelia,Dahlia,Dulcia,Elysia,

Eulalia,Eucryphia,Fabia,Floria,Fidelia,Fernilia,

Gaia, Grazia, GraciliaHestia,Harmonia,Hersilia,Ismilia,

Ignatica, Italia,Imperia,Izelia,Jahlia,Keelia, Karmia,Kilia,

Kaylia,Kezia,,Lampetia,Livia,Lycia,Lucia,Laelia,

Lucelia,Lila,Lucretia,Lakia, Lydia, Lexia,Mia,

Mercia,Mahalia, Makania, Melia,Nicia,Nakeia,

Natalia,Noellia,Naia,Nahia, Nicosia,Ophelia,

Olympia,Olyvia,Octavia,Ottilia,Orla,Oralia,Orthia,

Pia,Phelia,Philominia,Persia,Pascasia,Plumenia,Phylicia,

Pellonia,Peolpia,Ria, Rakaia, Samaia,Seraphia,

Saskia,Samaria,Sophronia, Sophia,Takia,Tilia,

Tahlia, Tovia,Tullia,Thoia,Vivia,Virginina,

Wisteria,Xylia,Xanthia,Yulia,Zahlia,

Zia,Zakia,Zavia,Zinovia,Zelphia,

http://community.babycenter.com/post/a7953415/della_ottilie_and_cosimas_sibling

Chicago based in-studio blog Daytrotter has introduced me to new bands countless times, but probably my favorite discover via the ‘Trotter would have to be The Local Natives. Hailing from Silver Lake, CA, The Local Natives are the newest addition to the recent wave of earthy folk groups. Their five piece vocal harmonies can be likened to Fleet Foxes, but don’t expect to find a rustic lullaby here. The Local Natives fuse a great use of rhythm, creating an almost triabl sound. They blew up the stage at SXSW, and I think just about everyone is anxious for the release of their debut Gorilla Mansion.

Check out their Daytrotter session here, watch their fun cover of “Cecelia” below, and sample an MP3 of their pre-release track, “Airplanes”

The Local Natives – Airplanes

Torno a scrivere dopo mesi di blocco, su questo blog appena nato, e così troppo presto abbandonato, e lo faccio citando l’ultimo libro della Ahern che ho appena finito di leggere.

Memorie, ricordi, chiamiamoli come vogliamo…impercettebili, indefinibili, eppure allo stesso tempo sono gli unici a definire noi stessi, a darci un’ identità… Stanotte l’ Italia è stata spaccata da un violentissimo sisma, percepito non solo nella regione più colpita, ma anche da altre. Alle 3.30 la terra ha tremato, e io l’ ho sentita. 40 secondi durati un’ eternità, attimi in cui la solitudine della tua stanza, e della tua casa ti soffocano, in cui vorresti gridare basta ma le parole si strozzano in gola.

Ti guardi intorno smarrita e capisci quanto sei sola in certi momenti, quanto sei impotente. Mi sono alzata e in preda all’ isteria ho acceso pc e TV pur di avere notizie, pur di avere compagnia e lasciare alle spalle la sensazione di vuoto che mi opprimeva.

Due ore e mezza sveglia, a vivere il dramma degli altri e il mio assieme, per poi rimettermi a letto nel momento in cui la terra di nuovo si è fatta sentire per assestarsi, così dicono gli esperti. Penso di non essermi mai spaventata a questa maniera in vita mia, e allo stesso tempo è frustrante vedere come il proprio spavento non sia nulla in confronto a quello di chi era nella zona realmente colpita.

Pensieri e parole hanno affollato la mia mente in quei terribili 40 secondi . E il pensiero principale è proprio andato ai miei ricordi. 19 dei 22 anni della mia vita li ho spesi qui in queste mura che ieri si muovevano come canne al vento, nel pieno di una bufera. 19 anni passati a collezionare pezzi di me, pezzi che si sono fatti poi consistenti, tanto da richiedere un cassetto enorme tutto per loro, e riflettendoci mi sono sentita stupida a pensare a quel cassetto, a tutto quello che racchiude, eppure là dentro ci sono io…

Se svanissero quei pezzi di carta, quelle scartoffie, è come se sparissi anch’io, o perlomeno la mia identità. C’è chi ha perso tutto, vita compresa…e per quanto il proprio Paese ci vada stretto, vederlo in ginocchio a questa maniera fa stringere il cuore e gelare il sangue nelle vene.

Ho passato ore sotto le coperte in preda al freddo, nonostante fuori l’alba stesse sorgendo, e con lei anche la calda giornata primaverile di oggi…poi il cellulare ha squillato, un messaggio da migliaia e migliaia di KM mi si chiede se sto bene, e al mio “Sì” si risponde con un “Thank God you are ok”, e si capisce così che la tragedia del proprio Paese è in scena sull’enorme palcoscenico mondiale…

Sono questi i momenti in cui ogni parola è inutile, vuota e sterile, ma anche i ricordi negativi vanno immortalati, fermati, e per quanto il gelo provato stanotte sia inesprimibile, ci sono sensazioni che una tastiera può aiutare e fermare su uno schermo, per non dimenticare…

Dearest Cecelia,
One has waved dear Lottie and the Tedster cheerio. That utterly mad brother of mine and his fiancee are off on a donkey trek in order to get in touch with the Wild Mother on a deeply spiritual level. Why, my staunch Catholic Mother and Father would go spare if they knew, and so Teddy has made me swear not to tattle to them. He’s such a queer creature, but a good egg nonetheless. I do hope the pair of them have a smashing time of it.

After a short delay – I was struck with a peculiar ailment on my return to the ship, but am feeling quite chipper now – myself and Jack are well on our way to the town of Braic, pausing now for a light snack and to stretch our cramped legs. I’d been misled to believe that Braic was a rather shorter distance than it actually is. As a result, Jack and I have hired the most terrifyingly bone-shaking motor cycle. I am clinging on for dear life at every harrowing turn and pothole in the road. The road is in the most frightful condition and yet is considered to be the most direct and oft used road between Gilead and Braic. I dare not complain when my teeth rattle. Jack has offered to trade the cycle for an ass on many occasions. Such a vulgar term!

Dear Cissy, I have seen many a strange sight along the way. We have passed travellers from all walks of life using a variety of methods of transportation. There have been several pilgrim families with pony and trap who greet us with a cursory nod and are dressed in a somewhat dated garb of black serge and cloth caps. Women and men in period costume from the days of Jane Austen also, chatter animatedly in horse drawn carriages, the women simpering and fluttering their eyelashes rather alarmingly in the hope that these important men will notice their advances. We have seen Elizabethan finery, elaborate dresses with ruffs about the neckline and men wearing breeches and doublets. Why, Cecelia, if I thought it was possible I might suggest that this road were leading us back through time! Perhaps Braic is hosting some sort of historical fair? Well, we shall find out soon enough. Jack and I will be retiring to a small inn at nightfall and arriving at Braic in the late afternoon tomorrow. I will be glad to be away from this road before dark, Cissy. Do not think me a coward for admitting that I do not like the way we are being appraised by our fellow travellers. Their eyes are dark and glassy like the eyes of the porcelain dolls which adorned my bedroom as a child. You remember how I fancied they would come to life at the witching hour. The air around the travellers is cold, though the sun has shone for the most part and I have heard naught but their reedy voices echoing about us. Where are the animal calls I heard on the Island of the Temple People? Oh, there are birds Cissy, but their voices are still, their gazes silent and greedy.

Jack is beckoning for me to return to the motor cycle to continue our journey  along this ghastly road and not a moment too soon. We have tarried long enough.

Yours

Elizabeth.

Dearest Cecelia,
It is time for me to leave the sanctity of the abbey here at Gilead, on the Isle of Lenore. I am hungry, no, famished for the adventure which lies outside these walls. I am well rested, my spirit nourished and I am renewed in my quest for the scrolls of Lemuria. One does wonder where the time has gone and if Jack has made any new discoveries in my absence.

During my delightful stay, I have become particularly close to a young novice by the name of Jelena. She is a gentle, timid girl who sought refuge here when her home life became terrible and frightening. The Abbess nurtured the broken child with tenderness, patience and poignant passages of Scripture until she was restored once more. Jelena spent many an afternoon conversing with me on matters of the gospel. We found during these discussions that we were in agreeance on most points. The quiet nun has made quite an impression on me and so I have entrusted her with the contents of my queer little journal which I retrieved from the glass garden one night by teleporting using the walnut. Now, Latin is not one of Jelena’s favourite subjects, she has thus far learned only the prayers necessary for Mass. However, she was able to recognise one word which appears near the grounds of the abbey. Jelena and her fellow novices often make the journey into town by foot, walking to the local hospices to tend to the ailing and elderly. Along the east wall of the abbey there is an ancient road which links Gilead to another town several miles away. This road was often used by local traders who passed by Gilead with carts loaded with wares such as silks, brocades and assorted teas, herbs and spices from the Orient. Close to this road stands a milestone, weather beaten, its markings all but faded. Chiselled into the stone is the word which appears most often in the section following the Royal Tree entry in the journal, Calculus.

Jelena informs me that this very road leads directly to the town of Braic where the Calculus, the Latin term for Counting Stones, stands. The stones’ true purpose for construction has since been lost to the modern world. They stand in a formidable circular formation, in a similar fashion to those which have stood for so long at Stonehenge. Perhaps then, they served a similar purpose in centuries past?

It is quite clear then, that the Counting Stones of Braic are to be my next destination. I shall return to the Vulcania on the morrow to pack the necessities and return the journal to safekeeping within the glass garden. Perhaps Jack should like to accompany me on this next leg of the journey?

I have promised to continue a correspondence with Jelena and return to the abbey as soon as I am able. Jelena is certain that I would thrive here, living a cloistered life. I haven’t the heart to tell her otherwise.

Elizabeth.

Dear Cecelia,
This March evening finds me tucked neatly away on the Lost Isle of Lenore, or more specifically within the stone walls of the Abbey in Gilead, Lenore. I have retreated here, more than a little horrified by the advances I made toward Jack at Violetta’s party. I am here either to seek penance for my actions or lick my wounds. I am not sure. I do know one thing with the utmost certainty. I must put an end to my engagement to stodgy old Charles. Now, this does not mean that I intend to pursue a relationship with Jack. Perish the thought! Rather, I should prefer to be alone than spend my life with a dreadful bore such as Charles. He is still missing, and of course I am distraught, but this time apart has made obvious to me just how little I need and miss him in his absence.

I have spent the past few days observing the monastic order as they attend to their daily routines. It would seem that idleness is not tolerated among these faithful Brides of Christ. Their days are spent at a variety of tasks – from choir practice to making the church vestments to be worn by the priests during Mass. I have paid many a visit to the work room where industrious nuns make the surplices – decorative tunics which are worn over the priests’ cassocks. I watch intently as some of the more experienced needleworkers fashion the heavily embroidered chasubles which are worn only for the celebration of the Eucharist. The garments here are of a surprisingly modern style. The chasuble is less of an oval piece of cloth and resembles instead, a broad scapular, the front cut away as to allow the priest to clasp his hands in prayer. The decorations, namely crosses in a heavy golden thread, which adorn the backs of these stiff brocade vestements are quite complex and the nuns who sew them possess a level of skill and dexterity that I have not witnessed before.

When not at work, these faithful women spend many an hour knelt before the Most Blessed Sacrament in Perpetual Adoration. At least two people are rostered to kneel before the unconsecrated bread and wine so that He is never left alone. Here, the Sacrament is exposed – laid out beneath a white host and attended to by the endless procession of nuns. I am in awe of their dedication to their tasks and find myself wondering if I shall ever achieve such devotion in both my practical and spiritual lives.

For now, though, I am content to dwell amongst those who sit in adoration of the Lord, to absorb this cloistered life and allow the tranquility to envelop me.

Elizabeth.

Cissy, darling

Last night was the night of Violetta’s sixtieth birthday bash. The invitation was an elegantly monogrammed affair which stated that the theme for the evening was to be ‘Swing, baby!’ to be held at Diamond Joe’s, one of the popular local bars on White Owl Island. Marvellous! A chance to wear another of my spiffing new beaded dresses and fancy little feathered headbands. Violetta had been thoughtful enough to include Jack, Lottie and Teddy in her invitation to me. I was rather thankful for this. I’ve never been one to enjoy arriving to an engagement alone, particularly when running fashionably late as I am wont to do from time to time.

Violetta greeted us upon arrival. She looked incredibly handsome, dressed unconventionally in a man’s suit, not dissimilar to the one which Jack wore. The sight of him looking so dapper in his suit had caught me quite by surprise and I couldn’t help but run my eyes over him several times throughout the evening.
‘Something take your fancy, dollface?’ he winked. I blushed immediately. Damn and blast!
In a feeble attempt to regain my composure I made numerous trips to the bar for refreshments before circulating amongst Violetta’s many friends. Several of the women attending wore purple boas about their necks. I guessed these to be her friends from the Sixty and Sassy Society. All that I spoke to appeared to be more than a little tipsy and fawned over Jack, who charmed the socks off each and every one of them. One particularly well-to-do woman even spanked Jack on the bottom and suggested that he call her. At that exchange, I believe I made another trip for refreshments, unable to believe the woman’s audacity.

The big band that had been secured for the evening’s entertainment struck up with a favourite Duke Ellington tune soon after and the dancing began. Teddy and I kick up our heels often at our local dances and partnered one another more than once during Violetta’s knees up. We danced and drank and danced some more as the band played hit after hit in succession.  Jack cut in on our final dance and I was pleasantly surprised to find that he was quite adept on the floor. Each time I glanced up to meet his eyes, he smiled down at me and I found that my stomach flipped. I found it very strange that he should have this effect on me. Perhaps I had consumed too much alcohol after all, sister, though I feel no lasting effects this morning.

After the final dance, dear Violetta gave a speech, thanking all of us for the impression that each had made upon her sixty years. Then, Cecelia, as all of us wept at her kind words, she surprised us all by announcing her engagement to a mysterious beaux known only as Marco. Marco stood quietly by her side, a good-looking Italian much younger than our vivacious friend. He seemed besotted, as did she. Jack slipped an arm around my shoulders as we toasted this most surprising news. A smile played across my lips as I looked at him. This time when he winked, I took the cue from the Sixty and Sassy ladies, pinched his bottom and suggested he call me, turned and strode toward the ship, laughing all the way.

Elizabeth.

P.S I Love You

Some people wait their whole lives to find their soul mates. But not Holly and Gerry.

They were childhood sweethearts- no one could imagine Holly and Gerry without each other.

Until the unthinkable happens. Gerry’s death devastates Holly. But as her 30th birthday looms Holly discovers that Gerry has left her a bundle of notes, gently guiding her into a new life without him, each signed “P.S, I love you”.

With some help from her friends, and her noisy and loving family, Holly finds herself laughing, crying, singing, dancing- and being braver than ever before.

Life is for living, she realises- but it always helps if there’s an angel watching over you.

________________________________________

Now I read the book after the film came out but i still havent seen the movie which for me is a good thing. The book is actually quite large on the edition ive got.Now of course yet again it isnt my kind of book as it was one of the books yet again my sister wanted to read but didnt have time to. Now i have horrible memories of this book, as i remember sitting in my sick bed with a throbbing cold reading this book but it was enjoyabe and laughable in some parts.

It begins with sad Holly, the widow, after her husband Gerry has died of cancer- sometimes in parts of the book you want to cry with Holly as it was such a painful loss and she just sits there on her couch all day crying and doing nothing, but soon she starts to see sense and starts putting her life back together again with help from her family and friends but she gets painful flashbacks of her and gerry when they were happily together in their home counrty of Ireland.

Later in the book Holly finds a new job and a potential boyfriend, while some parts of her family are going through a rough patch like her brother richard who has just spilt up with his wife and lost his job but secretly has a thing for gardening. Suddenly one day Holly finds a letter from Gerry and every month follows his advice and he sets her tasks which she completes- yet she knows his letters aren’t going to last forever as he’s only set out for her 10 different letters at the start of each month and with the help of her friends Sharon and Denise she finally gets into her shoes and follows what Gerry has instore for her.

The most funniest part of the book was when Holly, Sharon, Abbey, Ciara and Denise get filmed by Declan for the Channel Four docmentry about “Club life” but actually is about Holly’s 30th Birthday party where they go to a famous nightclub called Boudoir and Holly pretends to be The Princess of Finland to get past the bouncers!

_____________________________________

Right, you may see that some of my reviews are different, as i only writr long ones for books i loved but it is quite difficult on something to say about i didnt enjoy entirely

______________________________

In this book i didnt really like or hate any of the charcters as for me they were all a bit “blah!” as in they had no structure whatsoever and i found that quite hard to believe for a bestseller but if i had to choose it would be Declan but i dont know the reason why! This book for me was quite sopy and nothing special about it but i thought Holly would end up with Daniel as i thought they were meant to be together so that minuses a few stars for me as endings are very important in a book for me.

~Enjoy reading P.S I Love you

_________________

Lel1996

xoxoxoxo

Book: P.S I Love You

Author: Cecelia Ahern

Pages: 503 (Big font though)

Published: 2007

Rating: 2/5

Dearest Cecelia,
After having the most eventful few days on White Owl Island, I am enjoying a moment or two of quietude amongst my shipmates. I have been introduced to an artistic form of meditation, a pen and ink drawing where the focus is to concentrate on putting down one stroke at a time onto finest quality drawing paper. I am yet to reach the standards of my more experienced fellow artistes on board, but I did rather enjoy myself and felt very relaxed on its completion. Much needed relaxation, I can assure you.

I suppose you might now be wondering where on earth I have chosen to hide the golden box containing the Scroll of Lemuria? Let me tell you, dear sister, I have made a rather inspired selection. You will recall my very first visit to the glass garden right here on the Vulcania? I stepped back in time to be confronted by the most terrible of memories. I had held the sea shell to my ear and heard the prophecy of your impending death. Oh, dearest, how I miss you! Well, darling, I returned to the garden and meditated as L’Enchanteur had taught me, focusing intently on my breathing. Inhaling  and exhaling ever so slowly, all the while visualising that very same beach of our youth.

I have secreted the box in a small hollow in the cliff face where the high tide does not reach. The beach is so familiar to me, as indeed any favourite childhood playground might be and so I have no qualms about being able to locate the box again should I need to. Since this place resides only in my memories and can only be accessed by myself, I have no doubt that my secret is safe here.

Cecelia, there is still more excitement to come. Dear Violetta is soon to be sixty! I am to attend a lavish party two days hence. Joyous news indeed!

Elizabeth.

Dearest Cecelia,
I was correct in assuming that I would hardly sleep a wink. The warriors begrudgingly made us comfortable in one of their guest huts. I’m sure if it weren’t for fear of retribution from their leader, whose name I have since learned is Shala, they’d have happily left us to a fitful night on the packed hard earth of the copse floor. Our rooms were decorated in a minimalist fashion, with just the bare essentials at hand. I was rather taken with a set of tapestries which lined the walls, depicting waterfalls, a lush oasis and various cloudscapes. Several warriors appeared to keep a vigil in each one. One such tapestry was of a detailed hierarchy entitled ‘A Parliament of Owls’ with the Prime Owlister at the fore. Why, I had never heard of such a thing! Lemuria is so full of the most wonderful surprises!

Jack and I soon retired for the evening. Jack remained strangely quiet since being chastised by the warrior, Shala. We conversed briefly in anticipation of what to expect on awakening, but each was caught up in thoughts of our own and fell silent soon after. I slept fitfully, unused to the eerie sounds of owls calling to one another. Their calls haunted my dreams for much of the night and more than once, I awoke, startled and gasping for breath. As the sun began to rise, the sounds abathed and my tiredness soon gave way to excitement. I decided to leave the comfort of my bunk and take myself to sit upon the verandah which ran alongside the hut. I watched as the sun painted the sky in hues of magenta and gold. Shala approached as the last owl quieted.

‘The Councillor will see you now. There is no time to waste for he is old and impatient with the young.’

There we were, as simply as that, walking to meet one of Obas’ah the Benevolent’s councillors of old. My knees were as if made of blancmange. I looked to Jack for reassurance but all that he could offer me was a tight smile, his usual bravado and swagger were absent. The distance between our hut and that of the Councillor was not great, however, an age appeared to pass before we reached the humble dwelling. Shala rapped thrice on the door with the crook of her staff before vanishing before our very eyes! Jack and I sought one another’s hand for comfort and waited with sweating palms. The Councillor shuffled within, the door scraping back painfully on its hinges. We were greeted by the most wonderfully sweet and mischievous eyes, set in a face, currant brown and wrinkled. The Councillor, his head as hairless as that of a newborn baby, was small and dressed in a floor length woollen cassock.

‘Children, do come in. Let us not waste time no mince words. Shala has told me of your quest. She speaks well of you. I understand that The Enchantress is assisting you, that she has provided you with the means to grant you safe passage among the warriors. You seek to retrieve the scrolls of Lemuria. Tell me, what is it you intend for these scrolls once you have them in your possession?
‘Sir, we hadn’t really given it much thought beyond the safety of the scrolls. We simply must prevent them from falling into the hands of The Collector.’
‘Children, you are so naive. The scrolls will not be safe until they are returned to their rightful heir.’
‘But of Obas’ah’s two sons, one is dead, murdered by the one who has been banished for his evildoing.’
‘I speak not of Obas’ah’s sons. The heir need not be a direct descendant of The Benevolent One. The heir will be revealed by the scrolls themselves in due course. I am to understand that two of the scrolls are already in The Collector’s possession?’
‘Yes, Sir, we believe that to be true.’
‘Then you must take the one which I have given my life for. Guard it as I have. Do not let him possess this also.’
‘No puzzles or riddles to solve first, Sir?’
‘You would like me to devise a riddle for you, child? I have not the patience for such games.’
‘Well no, Sir, we wouldn’t ask you to devise such a riddle if one were not already in place, eh Jack, old chap? A puzzle would be most bothersome, wouldn’t you say?’
‘It is as I thought. The youth today.. everything handed to them on a silver platter..’ laughted the Councillor, his nut brown skin wrinkling further still. ‘Shoo! It is time for my mid-morning nap.’

Just like that, the Councillor pressed an engraved gold box, approximately three inches in length into my palm.
‘Peace be with you.’
‘And also with you, Sir.’

I tucked the box carefully inside my canvas knapsack. Jack and I clasped hands once more and clutching L’Enchanteur’s walnut, I uttered the chant which would return us directly to the Vulcania.

Elizabeth.

Dearest Cecelia,

As we approached the copse I gave an involuntary shiver. Six pairs of eyes watched us silently, glinting ominously in the failing light. Three pairs were almond shaped,  obviously human and the others were large and spherical, the eyes of great white owls. The owls shone as though basked in moonlight. Luminescent and quite the most magnificent creatures. Their round eyes held us in their gaze. I guessed from the look of their claws, sharpened to a lethal point that these birds could be formidable predators when necessary. I dared not move a muscle, for fear of upsetting these watchful beasts. Did they attack out of necessity only? I decided that a healthy respect for the unknown was in order. Better to err on the side of caution as Mother always says. Jack stood frozen beside me.

The almond eyes grew closer and I was able to ascertain that they belonged to three equally formidable and beautiful women. Broad and muscular, I felt small and insignificant in their presence. Jack’s jaw dropped and I had to nudge him sharply with my elbow. He let out a low whistle and I rolled my eyes in response. One woman stepped forward, quite clearly the designated spokesperson, perhaps even their leader. She beckoned toward me. These simply have to be the warriors that L’Enchanteur and the journal described.

‘State your purpose for being here.’
‘Um..’
‘Cat got your tongue?’
‘Perhaps she’s shy.’
‘Do we frighten you, girl?’

The others began to heckle. My tongue felt as though it was glued to the roof of my mouth and I blushed profusely, stuttering even more.

‘We’re here to..’ began Jack, moving forward. The warrior’s eyes flashed and Jack fell back, silent once again.

‘Let the girl speak for herself.’

Suddenly cross at being addressed in such a manner, I chastised the warrior, insisting that she show me the respect she commanded for herself. She smile indulgently at me and bade me to continue. I informed her of the reason for our intrusion into the copse. Nodding sagely, she spoke thus.

‘You do not require access to the tree to learn the secrets of its scrolls. You need only to show me what lies within your heart. The Enchantress has armed you with the means to do this.’

With that I passed to her the map of my heart which lay within the walnut’s shell. Within seconds she returned it to me.

‘You are innocent and pure and no doubt virginal also, unusual for one of your years. It is time for you to meet the Councillor who resides with us. I will commune with him and return at first light.’
‘W.. wait here?’ I cast around me. There was nowhere that would suffice for overnight shelter.
‘Fine,’ she sighed. Turning to her cohorts she ordered for them to take us to the village and make us comfortable.
‘This one looks sickly.’ I was horrified to find that she was pointing a long finger in my direction.
‘Wait a minute, I..’
The warrior held up my hand to silence my sputtering, ’she also does not know when she is expected to be silent.’

A Councillor, Cissy. A bona fide Councillor. we meet him tomorrow. I’m quite certain I shan’t sleep a wink!

Elizabeth.

Cissy,
Jack and I are afoot once more. We were delayed for a day while I recovered from a most debilitating migraine. I am recovered and so we have set out on a journey into the protected heartland of White Owl Island. We have permission to walk this way as long as we are careful not to remove anything from its natural environment. This area has recently been devastated by raging fires and is now undergoing a process of regeneration. We tread carefully, ensuring that our feet do not disturb the tender new growth.

According to our gracious hostess, L’Enchanteur, it will take us a full day to reach our destination. The day is warm and breezy, pleasant enough, and the scenery is simply breathtaking. Emerald hills undulate on either side of us. Jack and I walk at a leisurely pace through the Lol’ah Valley. We stop on occasion to take a closer look at the flora which is unique to this part of the world. Large, succulent, waxen petals turned to the sun, and the delicate, downy blossoms favoured by the bright flitting birds. We crossed the Lol’ah River at noon and began our climb toward higher ground, stopping only for a bite to eat. Pushing on, the climb became more demanding, the hills grow steeper, the ground beneath our feet, more treacherous. There are low outcrops of rock to navigate. More than once, I have required Jack’s assistance to pull me over a particularly difficult formation. We are growing ever closer now. Once we reach the Andus’at Plains we are on the last leg of our journey.

L’Enchanteur’s directions were concise and as accurate as one could hope for. As the sun leaves the sky, we can see the Plains stretching out before us. I welcome the relative ease of walking on flat terrain once more. L’Enchanteur’s hastily scribbled map can be folded away at last. I am grateful for her sound knowledge of Lemuria and its inhabitants. You will recall, Cissy, that each of us were given a gift of a walnut shell on departing for Lemuria. I have kept mine close to my person in the protective amulet about my throat. L’Enchanteur reminded me at the Potluck dinner that the walnut contains a map of the heart. Since only the pure of heart may pass into the copse where stands the Royal Tree, I aim to present the map to the Warrior who guards the way. I hope that this is enough to gain the entry I seek.

The light is beginning to fade now, Cissy, but we are here at last. The copse looms before us, the trees magnificent in both stature and girth. I gape in awe and forget for a moment the aching in my limbs. I wince with every step. Cramped and sore and in need of rest, I must bash on. We are still to locate the Warrior.

Something tells me though, that our approach has not gone unnoticed.
Elizabeth.

Dear Cissy,
There is much to tell. Last night’s festivities were splendid indeed! The ritual for the Charming of the Plough was magical to say the least. It was decided upon that our group would join together when presenting our offering. We set off from the harbour along a narrow country lane. Along the way we met a gentleman out for an early evening stroll with his sheepdog. The man, dressed in tweed knickerbockers suggested that we follow the lane for a mile or so where we would happen upon an old wooden stile. I had some difficulty in mounting the stile in my dress as you can imagine and rather annoyingly laddered my stockings. I was shocked when Jack suggested that I remove them altogether but had to agree that it seemed the sensible thing to do and so there I was in the middle of a field, doing the unthinkable!

We walked until we found ourselves confronted by a derelict farmhouse with pastures on all sides. Some of the fields were of a deep green, lush and others danced with rows of golden wheat, still warm from the sun. This was the perfect place to perform our ritual. In low tones we chanted, beseeching the Land Spirits to bless the soil, then crumbled our pieces of bread before us. The wind whispered as if the spirits had acknowledged our plea.

I decided not to turn back with the others, preferring to stay and meditate in solitude. The sky was beginning to darken and so Jack insisted that he remain with me. I stilled myself, which was nigh on impossible under the circumstances. Having Jack in such close proximity was rather distracting. I breathed slowly in and out, focusing on the rhythm of my breathing as L’Enchanteur had taught me. When I felt ready I turned and began to retrace my steps to the harbour in silence. I did not speak again until we neared the site of the Potluck dinner, quieting all of Jack’s attempts at conversation. The beach before us was alive with music and laughter. I waved to a few of my new friends from the Vulcania – Unity, wearing her trademark hibiscus in her hair, Sue dressed in a fairy costume, complete with cardboard wand and balancing a large dish of Cauliflower Cheese to rival our dear cook’s.

I turned my face to Jack and laughed at the frivolity surrounding us.
‘Tomorrow we must find someone to take us to the copse of Living Trees. According to the journal, the trees are home to the White Owl and are guarded by a powerful Lemurian Warrior. Only the pure of heart may gain access to the copse.’

Jack nodded in agreement and taking my hand, led me toward the festivities.

Elizabeth.

Cecelia, dearest,

Anticipation abounds as we prepare to disembark at White Owl Island. There is to be a ritual, honouring the Earth and asking Mother Earth and Father Sky for assistance in healing and nurturing the fertile soil. As we meditate on our dependence on the soil, we are to crumble bread and call upon the Land Spirits to keep the Earth safe from harm. This ritual is to be followed by a time of community between the island’s inhabitants and the passengers aboard the Vulcania. We are each to bring a dish to share with one another. Our evening will finish with the celebration of the Gala Ball.

Lottie and I have spent several days fashioning our costumes and I can now unveil them to you in their completed form. I am to be dressed as Clara Bow, the It girl and Lottie will be attending as Mary Pickford. I do so love the silent films and their glamorous stars! Lottie has always left her hair long and so is able to wear those divine ringlets which fall softly about her shoulders. My hair is cropped rather shorter. As a result, we have spent much of the day creating fluffy curls atop my head. I do look quite fetching. In fact, the resemblance between myself and Clara is rather remarkable. Drawing the eyebrows just so was a formidable task, but Lottie is simply wizard with a pencil.

The dish we are each to provide for the potluck dinner proved to be more of a challenge. I am so used to our dear cook preparing all of our meals back at the house in Yorkshire that I really haven’t a clue where to begin in the kitchen. I do rather hope there will be a place in which I can purchase such a dish once we are ashore.  I am quite well prepared for the festival offering though. There was something of an abundance of food at lunch today and I have managed to save some of the lovely warm, fresh bread rolls. I have distributed them among our group. Mine is in a small, satin drawstring bag which slips rather nicely onto my wrist.

Now to round up the others. I believe we are exiting the ship en masse. I hop I can navigate the gangplank in my heels without too much of a fuss!

Elizabeth.

Dearest Cecelia,
What a marvellous time I had at the theatre on Friday afternoon! Dear Rilla was able to accompany our party. I hadn’t seen her in what must be the longest time. She’s well and having the gaiest time with her family. We have such similar taste in shoes and accessories. I simply had to admire her gorgeous patent, heeled Mary Janes and new cloche!

Oh, but Miss Evelyn Laye was wonderful in the role of Sarah. She’s fair and doe-eyed, truly the most beautiful of creatures. Bitter Sweet is not one of Mr Coward’s finest storylines but the music was enchanting nonetheless. What a memorable song is ‘I’ll See You Again’. I find myself humming it as I go about my day. Jack has resurfaced at last, appearing at my side during the matinee and inviting himself to sit with our intimate group. He has apparently been ‘boning up’ on a few things, namely our next port of call, White Owl Island. No-one knows quite what to expect, but he tells me the guardians are very particular about who is allowed to venture onto the protected heritage sites. There is an extensive conservation programme in place and we are to respect the regeneration taking place.

While on board, Jack has been commissioned to write several articles for The Review. His Editor-in-Chief feels that their New York readership would welcome a little Lemurian adventure as something of a departure from the usual restaurant and entertainment reviews. Travellers can join the cruise at any time from several capital cities around the world. The Review has agreed to pay Jack’s passage as long as he ‘comes up with the goods’, to coin his own phrase. I was finally able to show Jack the journal as I always keep it about my person, and gave him a potted version of my discoveries to date. His response was to slap me between the shoulder blades in a hearty fashion, which knocked the wind right out of me!

‘We’ll make a reporter out of you yet, Lizzy.’

Now, I don’t know why that excited me so, Cissy, but it did. The very thought of me turning out newsworthy articles and burying myself in research..

‘Hey, let’s not get carried away here, doll. I’m just yanking your chain.’

His voice broke my reverie and I felt my face flush with embarrassment. Am I terribly transparent, Cissy? I always rather envied stuffy old Charles’ writing career. Perhaps..

With Noel Coward at an end, I wandered back to my cabin to dress for dinner. Jack was chivalrous enough to accompany me and apologised for his earlier carelessness. He hadn’t realised, clearly, that I genuinely did fancy myself as a journalist and kindly offered to put in a good word for me with his Editor-in-Chief. I am to show him some of my work before we reach White Owl Island. In return for his charity, I have offered to direct him to the glass garden.  As I write, I find myself singing a catchy tune from Bitter Sweet. I have heard other theatre-goers muttering of the indecency of the lyrics and its inclusion in the operetta. Poppycock, I say! The song is sung by four young dandies and I think it lends itself well to the play.  We reside in much more liberal times and I applaud Noel Coward for his apparent reference to homosexuality. I will allow you to decide for yourself, dear sister, by including a verse or two for your perusal.

Pretty boys, witty boys, you may sneer
at our disintegration.
Haughty boys, naughty boys,
Dear, dear, dear!
Swooning with affectation..
and as we are the reason
for the nineties being gay,
we all wear a green carnation.

Your

Elizabeth.

Cecelia,
How queer! I haven’t been able to find Jack anywhere on the ship. He’s never in his cabin when I knock and appears not to have taken any meals in the dining room. Perhaps he’s gone ashore, though one does wonder how since we are so far out to sea. I have been making the most of my free time and have rather enjoyed this uncommonly temperate climate. There is always such a soft, cool breeze blowing gently from the North during my morning sabbatical along the promenade. I don’t miss Old Blighty in the slightest.

After this morning’s constitution, I took my breakfast with Violetta, in her quarters. She was most excited to learn of my latest findings and is eager to be of assistance once we arrive at White Owl Island. Some of her dearest friends inhabit the island and she is quite looking forward to introducing them to me. Much of my time will be spent searching for answers to the many questions raised by the Latin journal, but I’m quite determined to leave a little time free for a social gathering or two. Violetta will be celebrating her sixtieth birthday whilst on the island and that’s one bash I wouldn’t want to miss. I’m to meet her dear friends from the S.A.S – Sixty and Sassy club, of which she is about to become a fully-fledged member.

Now, I really must find that incorrigible American. We have much to discuss and I haven’t got all day. I was very much hoping to attend the matinee of Noel Coward’s operetta, Bitter Sweet at the Rose and Swan Theatre directly, with Teddy and Lottie and a few of the other passengers. Those two have been as thick as thieves since we left the Temple People in our wake. I really must pry Lottie away from that brother of mine for a spot of girl talk over martinis. I have this divine new oxblood coloured lipstick in an intricately engraved silver compact that I know Lottie is just dying to get her grubby mitts on. Something tells me I should have bought one for the both of us!

Toodle pip, sis!

Elizabeth.

Cissy,
I have worked on the journal periodically throughout yesterday and this morning. I’m quite certain I have gleaned as much as I can for the time being. The handwriting is tiny and crawls haphazardly across the page, rendering much of the text illegible. Using key words, and a liberal amount of supposition, I have been able to piece together the following..

The Royal Tree, also known as the Oldest Living Tree (the Living Tree of local legend) is an intimate grove of trees which are thousands of years old. These trees were to be found on the grounds of Obas’ah and his clan’s stately home on White Owl Island. In this grove stands the First Tree, from which all of the other trees in the grove were seeded. The paper on which the Scrolls of Lemuria were written was taken from this tree.

Obas’ah and his carefully chosen Council of Elders would form a circle around the trunk of the Oldest Living Tree, and chant in praise for the blessings of the land and its people. Imbued with the tree’s energy, Obas’ah was able to write the ancient secrets as they came to him in a vision. The secrets were then divided among the Councillors. Each Councillor possessed the secrets of just one scroll, and each was guarded by a skin-walker from the honourable and selfless Catsis clan. Only Obas’ah held the secrets of all six scrolls. Each scroll holds the secret to one of the High Powers that came to Obas’ah in his vision. These powers were telekinesis, telepathy, immortality, prophecy, levitation and the power that comes with All Knowlege. The journal mentions them by description When Obas’ah’s son betrayed him by murdering his own brother in order to inherit the Archipelago in its entirety, the Council were instructed to disperse and take refuge in secret locations and to return only when the new heir was apparent.

Six scrolls, six powers, six Councillors. Two of the Council have relinquished their scrolls to The Collector already. Jack and I must find the others before The Collector does. I should inform Jack of my latest findings at once. I shall search for him soonest. While I am on board the ship though, any further discovery of the legends will simply have to wait. The Pythian Games are about to begin and I, for one, wouldn’t miss them for the world.

Elizabeth.

Darling Cissy,
it does pay to be tenacious when one has a problem to solve. After a rather disappointing start on the journal yesterday morning, I am beginning to make some sense of the script within its pages. Violetta has been most helpful and I find her company to be quite stimulating.

As arranged, I called on Violetta after 4pm. She received me in the comfort of the most sumptuous living quarters I have seen so far. They are not large by any means, but since Violetta retains her cabin all year round, she has named it The Penthouse and has decorated it in a manner befitting one of an elevated status in society. Her maid, Anamaria, addresses her as Contessa and I wonder if this is merely an affectation. Violetta IS the widow of a Count, though which one, I confess I do not know. She speaks Italian so rapidly that I did not catch his name. Ah well, I am sure the relevance of such a detail is neither here nor there.

Violetta is a perfect hostess. She had Ana serve us wine before allowing her to retire for the evening, then proceeded to order an array of delicious cold meat, cheese and dessert platters. There was more than enough food to serve a gathering of half a dozen or more! We dawdled through our supper, savouring the food and wine as the Europeans do, conversing on many subjects until finally, we lit upon the subject of my quest. I brought Violetta up-to-date and showed her the slim journal. Her eyes sparkled as she caressed the cover before gingerly turning the pages.
‘Sweet Elizabeth. This is not my beautiful native tongue which is inscribed upon these pages.’
‘It’s not? Well then, what in the dickens could it possibly be? This word here.. amputata.. it sounded Italian as I spoke it aloud.’
‘Si, this word is similar to the English word amputate, and the Italian word amputare,’ she agreed. ‘However, it is neither language but one which is now dying. Latin. This word here, regis, means royal. This word here, next to it, is arbor.. tree. We are looking at a passage which describes in great detail how some part of a ‘royal tree’ was ‘disconnected’ in some manner.’
‘Latin,’ I mused. ‘How is it that you are able to read Latin, Contessa?’
‘My darling, I am Italian as you know, and a very good Catholic girl to boot,’ she winked. ‘I attend the Latin Mass whenever I happen upon one. As I said, Latin is a dying language and so few churches still practice in this way. I’m afraid the Latin Mass is so rare these days. It is a shame, for the Latin Mass is so earthy and beautiful to participate in.’

There we have it, Cissy. I suspect now that my journal might be very old for it to be written in Latin, for why else would someone write an entire journal in a dying, yet still translatable tongue?

I am armed now with a Latin-English dictionary. Let us see what other delights await us. The royal tree has whetted my appetite and I am hungry for more.

Your

Elizabeth.