It’s the first one of these I’ve done since 2012 and it sure is the way to go. My hidey hole this time is the cathedral city of Winchester, a most pleasant place within easy striking distance of Jersey, and the English south coast.

My garret is an Airbnb in a terrace yards away from the remnants of Hyde Abbey where, in the year 1110, Alfred the Great was reinterred. A few yards onwards is the Hyde Tavern where, after a pint or two of strong ale, one can imagine the Saxons of old carousing and singing rugby songs.

So my days begin with a bit of a run through the spacious recreation grounds nearby, and onwards through the nature reserve along a section of the lovely River Itchen. Then a healthy breakfast in town before getting down to work.

Any blog followers who remain will know that this WIP is on the dark subject of human trafficking, particularly that of children enslaved to work in the brothels of Sonagachi, Kolkata. Whether or not anyone cares to read it, it’s a project I’ve been wanting to bring to fruition for a number of years now. And it’s going well. 10,500 words in my first three days bringing the story towards the endgame, 60,000 words in all to date.

Still plenty to do but now I can start thinking about edits, proofing etc. In particular I need some affirmations that, in writing of a location that I’ve never visited, and by writing the young female character in the first person, I’ve not made too many blunders.

Haha. Apologies to any writers who have been sucked in by the title. I did my best to dissuade you really. See, I’m the very last person on the planet to give you tips on selling. Be it cars, real estate, electrical goods, fish, I just can’t sell. I’m rubbish. I’d have been a sad case back in the days when guys in cheap suits used to go door-to-door selling encyclopedias or hoovers.

‘Morning Madame, can I interest you in our latest…’
‘Not today, thank you.’
‘Oh right. Good day then.’ *Doffs hat, goes next door.*

I had a short, ill-fated spell in charge of an Irish fitness studio. Just as the global recession deepened in 2009. No one was interested in memberships, however deeply discounted. A silvery-tongued and trained salesman might have had different results.

As to books, I’ve written and self-published seven. They may not be classics but I’ve read worse. But I’ve never had the inclination to spend time marketing them. It’s like having a shop without a sign or a window display. And unsurprisingly I’m not in the Amazon best sellers list.

But then a strange thing happened. A surge in the sale of one title, A West Cork Mystery. We’re not talking millions here, or hundreds even. But for six months, sales were steady (though sadly they appear to be tailing off now.) Multiply the figures by seven and I’d be starting to recoup some costs from this writing malarkey.

So tell me, what happened? Did I get a good review somewhere? (There are only a few on Amazon.) If I knew then I could try to exploit or replicate the matter.

P.S. If you disappointed writers have stuck with this post, here’s a tip. Follow whizbuzzbooks.com and its Twitter feed. Of all the plentiful self-publishing and marketing advice out there, I always find their stuff digestible and practical. I might even start using some of it some day.

Mr Blue Sky please tell us why
You had to hide away for so long
Where did we go wrong
(Jeff Lynne)

It seems to have been a long and lonely winter. Wet and windy rather than particularly cold. For the first time I’m beginning to understand why so many retired UK folk head off to warmer climes for a few months.

Duncan Foster’s pic – Manx Loghtan sheep at Devil’s Hole on Jersey’s north coast.

I’ve not found it easy to get out running the miles that I need to stay in race shape. (A ponderous 54min 10k last weekend.) Good intentions the night before have too often vanished on seeing what the next Atlantic front has blown in. Jersey sure is a windy and exposed spot in the wintertime.

Lydie & Maureen with the sand dunes as a backdrop.

But maybe we’ve turned the corner. Jersey’s 45 square miles beckons once more. Its endless country lanes with their banks, hedges and ancient walls. Forbidding old granite houses, brighter new developments in keeping with the landscape. Lush farmland which just needs to dry out a little more to welcome the Jersey herds from their winter quarters.

Jersey’s south coast cliffs with Corbière lighthouse in the distance.

Then our coastal paths with breathtaking views of bays, cliffs, the other Channel Islands. Wooded trails, quietly and unobtrusively upkept when we’re not watching. And, for the observant, so many reminders of bygone days and echoes of those that preceded us.

In the woods, St Peter.

Old Jersey lavoir, designed as a communal laundry facility.

Here’s hoping for a long summer and to ending it in better shape than when I started.

Little darling, I feel the ice is slowly melting
Little darling, it seems like years since it’s been clear
Here comes the sun, here comes the sun
And I say it’s all right
(George Harrison)