In the last few weeks I’ve noticed a definite change in the air. Leaves are starting to crunch under my feet, I’m pulling out my knitted shawls and cozy sweaters, and I’m settling down with a hot cup of tea and fat historical novels.
I’ve always loved books set in other times, from L.M. Montgomery’s Prince Edward Island at the turn of the century, to Sharon Kay Penman’s novels of thirteenth century Wales. I devoted a whole blog to my love of Dorothy Dunnett and her excellent Lymond Chronicles, as well as my serendipitous finding of Amy Snow by Tracey Rees. Across the counter I’ve confessed to customers that most historical knowledge I possess, patchy and uneven as it is, comes from reading historical fiction and not from what I learned in school days. I’ve always found it easier to remember the broad strokes of historical facts when I’ve invested in the personal lives of historical figures through a good story. Anglophile that I am, my knowledge base is concentrated heavily in England, to the detriment of most other places.