Wednesday, 26 August 2015

"The whole world is lying and cheating,and everybody else goes along with it--except when I do it."

Peter Murphy, author of "Lagan Love", his first novel, has now given us "All Roads”, the third novel, after "Born and Bred” and "Wandering in Exile”, in the Life and Times trilogy. These four books have placed Murphy in the league with other popular and loved Irish writers such as Roddy Doyle, Frank McCourt, Brendan Behan, Brendan O’Carroll, Sean O’Casey, Patrick Taylor and others. If you love to read about Irish life, culture, history ,family and other influences such as politics and religion; you will find this new voice and storyteller a must read writer.

This latest novel finds the central character, Danny Boyle, now in Canada with his family in 1997.The first line in the novel, "Hi, I'm Danny B. and I'm AN ALCOHOLIC”, kicks off the next 16 years in the life of Danny, his wife, family, friends, as well as his troubled life, to both himself and those who surround him and are affected by him. The novel takes place mainly in Toronto, but there are many times over the years, that the reader is transported to Dublin and Rome I won't go into details about the storyline of this novel, or the two proceeding novels of the trilogy, other than that each of the novels can stand alone in reading, but I strongly suggest you read "Born and Bred", "Wandering in Exile" and "All Roads" in that order. As I have mentioned in my other Reviews, this novel covers 16 years and a lot of characters; so I suggest you keep a list of the characters and their relationships as they keep re-appearing over the years. Murphy helps the reader in keeping track of time by dating the time period of each chapter.

You might also wish to read my Reviews, as well as others, that have been posted here on Amazon.
While the stories, characters, family, friends, associates, and experiences make for an engrossing read; there are a plethora of lessons, good and otherwise, that you'll obtain from this trilogy; that will remain with you for a long time.

If you forget all about the lives and experiences of the people in this trilogy, just remember; Danny's words;

"When I was drinking I used to try and tell myself that I wasn't harming anybody else, but that wasn't true. Everything we do spills over into other people's lives--the good and the bad."

Jerry Guild

Monday, 17 August 2015

Whirly gigs and a small princess

Getting back into the whirly gig

For most of the last four years I spent my days in one chair or another, writing Life & Times, the story of one man and the abutting parts of the world that tormented and shaped him, deformities and all. It spans almost 60 years and required a lot of remembering and looking back at the way things were, and as old memories came back and mingled with my disconsolation with the present, and my distrust of the future, I needed to shut myself off. I had to carry the entire story around inside of me and shun all outside distractions and interruptions.

Moving to Lisbon was the reward, a necessity and a formal farewell to a great many things that had been churning around inside of me for years. Here I would get out more, get some sun, meet new people, and see new things. I knew it would be a transition as I had grown very used to my solitude shared mostly with imaginary characters. I knew it would be busy and, at times, hectic, but what I hadn’t considered was that it could be far more absurd than any fiction I might cobble together.

Back into the beast’s lair

Before books are released into the wild, publishers send copies to be distributed to friends & lovers, reviewers and other shady people an author might owe gambling debts, etc. It is a simple enough practice. The books are declared to have no value – fitting, eh? And they get delivered without too much fuss and bother.

Not here, though. It began with a very formal letter from the post office which I replied to in my best Googled Portuguese to the effect that I was not intending to resell the books and avoid paying tax on my lucre.

Perhaps Google wasn’t the best go-between because they sent me a template to declare what I had already declared. Fair enough, says I to the dog, and re-Googled.


It still wasn’t enough and after a few weeks, there was nothing for it but to make my way over to the alfandega. Now it wasn’t quite Gates of Mordor stuff but it wasn’t the most pleasant part of Lisbon.

Anyway, I took my number and waited to see the person who could verify that I had legitimate business with them and was sent back to take a number for the person who could actually deal with my problem.


While I waited, a young girl walked in with a flower in her hand and asked almost everyone there for a glass of water to put her flower in. Finally someone looked after her but I wasn’t so lucky. The woman behind the counter could not help me and could not explain what the problem was.

There was nothing for it but to resort to English and she agreed to send for the man who spoke English—only he was having coffee and I had to wait for a while.


When he did emerge, he was polite, dignified, and helpful. The declared dollar value on my box of books was, he was sad to inform me, “impossible in Portugal.”

Fair enough, says I and we both scratched out heads, eyed each other like we were playing poker, and eventually came up with a value that was possible. 150 Euros seemed fair—after all it is literary fiction and here in Portugal that still has some value. They still respect writers here and have ruas and largos named after poets and the like.

The value of literary fiction

150 Euros, says I to myself, I’m going to get dinged for tax here.
Portugal, like a few other countries has been singled out to pay the penalty of the recklessness of International banking and all their Credit Default nonsense that broke the way money works.


Fair enough, says I to the man who spoke English and he wished me a good morning and assured me that, now that the form had an acceptable value written on it, his colleague would now be able to look after me.

Except she was busy arguing with a couple who were trying to smuggle something past customs so I waited. And I waited. And while I waited some more, the young girl with the flower stepped in front of me, held up a ticket, bowed and smiled. Being well-breed, myself, I took the ticket and bowed back.

The little girl seemed content with her efforts and began to drink from the glass with the flower.

In time, the lady behind the counter was able to look at my form—with the true value of literary fiction in the appropriate box—and stamp the damn thing. She then explained that I should take the now acceptable form to another wicket.

I looked up at the screen that informs which ticket is next and I looked down at the ticket the little girl had given me. I was next and with little more ado, I got my box of books, didn’t have to pay tax, and was on my way.

Tuesday, 11 August 2015

I used to have a real job once.

For marketing purposes, I’m supposed to be working on my blog – Following the Muse ( – but the damn thing has gotten so far ahead of me that I am wandering around in a bit of a daze.

Having recently moved to Lisbon, I have become a bit absorbed in the new life all around me. I’m in “input mood,” I keep reminding myself as each gloriously sunny day fades into another cool, pearly evening.

But I did manage to get back to working on the next novel and it is a struggle. Novels are like lovers in that you are rarely in the mood at the same time and when you are ready, your novel crosses its legs and sulks. At least mine do!

I’m less concerned about that these days and while it might be the effect of the aforementioned glorious sun, or the cool, pearly evenings, or the fact that life in Lisbon has not yet been totally trampled underfoot by what often gets confused with progress, I prefer to think of my work as fruit. It will ripen when the time is right.

Some of my readers will agree and think of lemons—and to them I say: life is grand.
Thinking like this is an adjustment because I once held jobs in the regular sense of the word and I was even good at some of them. I was very focused on things like timelines and deliverables. I understood that in the great clock-likeness of the modern enterprise, each little cog had to play its part; on time and on budget. It became a bit of an obsession with me and I suffered interruption with the grace of a disturbed hippo—particularly when the time wasting came from above.

I masked my disdain with a kind of strained stoicism as some director waffled on about synergies and scalabilities and all the other words they had recently stumbled upon while reading an in-flight magazine. You know the type. They wear their company IDs to the washroom and I can only assume that it is a precaution. If the better parts of their brains fall out, they can still remember their primary purpose which is to assert their importance by interrupting the progress of those they bore for hours with pep-talks about improving productivity and importance of individual accountability in the grand scheme.

Over time my strained stoicism wore thin and I began to garner a reputation for “being a bit abrasive.”

Given what was really going through my mind, I think I should have been awarded medals for tact and diplomacy.

I once worked with a guy who regularly fell asleep at his desk and could be relied upon for nothing—except his uncanny skill at ass kissing. He could do it in his sleep. Naturally he was promoted beyond all usefulness while the rest of us struggled on in relative anonymity. For the most part I kept my comments to a bare minimum—acerbic as they were—and instead just hung signs on his desk!

I was thinking about this the last few afternoons which have been a bit on the hot side -- 35+ which is beyond my operating range. As I sat staring at the end of chapter 3, wondering which of the next story lines to go with, my head would start to nod. No amount of coffee could forestall the inevitable and I gave in and took naps.

There was a time when I would have scolded myself for that and imposed new and stricter deadlines to compensate. Now, not so much. You see all those jobs; carrying bricks up rickety scaffolds, digging holes like redemption was underground, dusting ballot boxes in a government basement, writing yards of computer code, taught me a great many things that have become so much clearer in the rear-view mirror. I now know myself and I know that I know how to get things done.

I should also admit that as I get older, I have become a little more indulgent with myself. I have come to the realisation that “I’m not the worst of them” and that some of the stuff I write—albeit overlooked by the shallow masses—has merit.

Writing books I have become to realise is less about one critical path and more about meandering through myriad possibilities. It is a bit like how we used to learn things before we got packed off to school; we played until we knew.

Fortunately, I work for myself these days as such thinking would be heresy to the bottom-line crowd and their synergies and scalabilities and all the other words they use to mask the sad fact that so very few of us really have any idea what we are doing. I certainly don’t, but that might yet turn out to be my greatest asset.

Anyway, enough chit-chat, time to get back to staring at the computer screen.

Tuesday, 7 July 2015

Following the Muse - part 4

When in doubt, follow your dog.

Adapting to life in Lisbon can be hectic in ways that I hadn’t considered. Sometimes I feel like my dog whose nose hasn’t stopped twitching since we arrived. We are both in the same boat; trying to make sense of it all and to find our bearings.
Dogs are more suited to this and simply sniff everything, taste whatever smells particularly interesting, piddle on everything else, and become intimately informed of others of their species.

We, on the other hand, have to conform to social norms that change from place to place, but I suppose it’s true for dogs, too. Back in Canada, the dogs sniffed each other’s faces first. Poor Baxter; she’s had to sit tight and snarl to dissuade some of these Lisbon hounds.

And then, just when she was beginning to assert herself into the dog pack at the local park, we moved. However, right after unpacking we took our first walk around the new hood and met the most dignified and elegant collie. She wanted no part of us and I can only assume that Baxter must have picked up some inappropriate habits while strutting through the streets of Mouraria. I would worry about that but she usually displays better sense than I and will adapt. 
There is something happening here.


Lisbon, I am finding, has its own logic that seems to make little sense at first but becomes more rational with understanding. I suppose that is true about most places but it does escape the tourists who seem to expect life to rearrange itself to their expectations —the “Holiday Inn” mentality that a familiar sameness is required with enough local flavour to identify which holiday photo is which. And while I have only been here for three months, I am beginning to develop a sense for the depth and beauty of life here.
Reading about Lisbon, I came across two things that have given me much to ponder on. (I do that—I ponder a lot.) Lisbon, probably in honor of its Phoenician past, and the golden age of the Navigators, is often referred to as the “City of the Sea.” It was from Lisbon that ships set out to “discover” the new world.
It was also a city that suffered devastation from the sea when, in 1775, a tsunami followed an earthquake that destroyed the city and turned Portugal from an externally focused, expanding empire into the more insular nation it has become.

It also allowed for the redevelopment of much of the downtown region so that the current city combines many of the evolving lessons of urban planning. Broad avenidas link parks and squares and are lined with elegant houses that are part Romanesque, part Arabesque, a little pompous but, for the most part, practical with a few wedding cakes thrown in.
In the rebuilding, older lessons were also remembered and while there is always a hill in Lisbon—no matter where you are trying to get to—there is always a breeze and some of them are fresh from the sea. Good thing too because there have been a few days when my body, finally thawed from the Canadian winter, became a little seared around the edges.
Then comes the night, cool and bright with memories on the air . . . but then there are these mosquitos that are very impartial to mostly thawed, slightly seared, Irish blood. We had them back in Canada but for the most part, they left me alone.  These Lisbon mosquitos are mean little buggers. I blame the Portuguese people—they are far too nice and accommodating, except for some of the bureaucrats we have had to deal with.

You are nothing without a NIF
Without the Número de Indentificação Fiscal, all that is magnificent about this place would shudder and collapse again. It is a government issued number that allows the good people in whatever taxation department to keep in touch with every single resident in their day-to-day lives, but you can win a car.

“Fair enough” we said to each other. “Let’s be getting one of them.”
It is never that easy. The first time, we took a number and waited. Others took their numbers and wandered off down the street for coffee; even the man in wicket 5, the one that was dealing with NIFs that day. Finally our number came up, but the kind gentleman, who had just returned from lunch, regretfully informed us that the system was down. He was kind enough to hear our problem and replied in a combination of Portuguese and English. My wife, who was from the Azores which as I was to find out later “Is not a part of Portugal”, did her best but her Portuguese clearly wasn’t adequate.

He talked and he listened along with the woman at the next wicket and offered condolences with a shrug. The system was down and he was so powerless that he seemed to deflate in front of us.
My wife went alone on the second day and the system was back up but the deflated gentleman was not dealing with NIFs. The hard faced woman in wicket 3 was; the one that wore D&G glasses. My wife explained her situation with nodding approval from the woman in wicket 4 who had heard it all before. Ms. D&G insisted that my wife was in the wrong place and suggested she go to Immigration. (Later, we concluded that it must have been the language issue.)

Anyway, undeterred, my wife produced her national identity card—the one she had painstakingly secured before leaving Toronto—splendid proof of identity despite the awful mugshot. Except for one tiny detail; there was nothing in the little box labelled Número de Indentificação Fiscal. They could not issue that in Canada but everything else looked good.
Looking a little piqued, I have been assured, Ms. D&G held the card in her long bony fingers like it was a specimen of something catching.

“You have to give it to her now,” the woman in wicket 4 joined in.
“Very well,” Ms. D&G reluctantly agreed and began to tap her way into the system. “What parish were you born in?”

That was when my poor wife learnt that all she had been raised to believe in, all the proud Portuguese stuff about exploring and discovering, and being the first and best at everything, and that the cream of all things Portuguese are from the islands, was a lie. According to whatever corner of the system Ms. D&G had tapped into, Angra do Heroismo, on the island of Terceira, the third largest island in the Região Autónoma dos Açores, was not a part of Portugal.
Even the woman in wicket 4 took up the Azorean cause but to no avail. My wife was to be considered some type of alien until she could produce sufficient documentation – which my wife was not carrying. (Something I put down to the Azorean sense of autonomy.) Home she came, without a NIF and made to feel like an immigrant instead of a home comer.

Naturally, I went the next day as the muscle if such was required and because I never miss an opportunity to study absurdity in all its glory. We took our number and waited. Ms D&G was attending to other matters and so was wicket 5. Wicket 4 was our only hope and when she returned from coffee break, she smiled, clicked a few times at the system and gave us a NIF.
That weekend the local square was filled with folk dancers and celebrations of the good things in life. They might have been there for other reasons but it made my wife smile again.

Eu não falo Portugues

It is the only phrase I have mastered so far and I have said it so often that I am trying variations in tone and timbre, timing and delivery. Someone laughed at me the other day and said: “You just said that in Portuguese.”
I will learn the language but, as I have reminded my critics, most of the Portuguese took 18 to 24 months to say their first words and I am way ahead as I, after only 3 months, can pop up with a few of the basics of civility. Please, thank you, good day, good afternoon, and goodnight. I can almost order coffee but I am still buying cigars in sign language. Food is easy because it all tastes great and most of our neighbours are gracious enough to speak to me in impeccable English laced with just a touch of accent. Lisboetas can be a very cultured and dignified lot.

Still, I will learn the language because it is the least I can do for the generosity this city offers, once you have a NIF.
Now getting the dog one; that’s going to be fun. Though she already has her European doggie passport, good for entry to the whole continent—even Greece, for now.

Tuesday, 30 June 2015

All Roads

All Roads, the final book in the Life & Times trilogy, goes out into the word today.  I wish it all the best as I am rather fond of that book. In fact I liked writing the whole trilogy, but I might be a bit biased. It’s not unlike having children, you know, and I have some of those too. You want to be protective and all that, but you just got to sit back and let it find its own way.

I remember when it was nothing more than a few notes and scraps of character. In fact the trilogy came about because I started three different versions of what I thought was the same story. 100 pages into each, it dawned on me and Born & Bred, Wandering in Exile, and All Roads were the result.

It is not—and I repeat not—autobiographical even though much that happens in the books did happen, but not to me. I just happened to be nearby when it did.

The responses so far have been mixed, to say the least, and that is not a bad thing. The story of Danny and the rest of them; Deirdre, the kids, Jacinta & Jerry, Miriam, Patrick and the rest are the stories of people I have watched cope with the ever changing times I have lived through. 

The past plays a role as it does in real life and today, just like every other day, the past is the backdrop and we struggle to be free of it.

Since writing the story, I have moved and am slowly settling into a very different reality but I look back at the 4 years I spent in my writing chair with a mix of pride and nostalgia. There are new and different books waiting to be written but today I’ll take a moment to sit back and acknowledge Danny Boyle for all that he taught me.

Tuesday, 12 May 2015

Following the Muse: Part 3


On April 25th 1974, a military coup ended the rule of the “Estada Nova,” the Portuguese dictatorship that had lasted for the better part of 50 years. The revolution was remarkable in that there were very few casualties. Four people were killed by the security police. The soldiers who led the revolt were embraced by the people who rushed out to join them in the streets and placed flowers in their rifles giving us “The Carnation Revolution.” And on April 25th of this year I watched the anniversary celebrations in the middle of Lisbon.

Supporters of the ousted regime—and there are a few, including our local butcher who was but a child when the revolution happened—probably took grim solace in that, as we stood listening to aging idealists making speeches and singing songs of celebration, the skies were grey and foreboding and soon let loose their rains.
Those who came to celebrate the past and the future were uncertain. Austerity bites deep here and the Portuguese that I have come to know are much more invested in politics than most. Salazar, the dictator, is still a divisive figure here but pales when compared to “The Troika,” – the European Central Bank (ECB), the European Commission (EC), and the International Monetary Fund (IMF). Still, if we are in dark times, let us remember that it is always darkest before the dawn.

Despite my optimism, I left as the rain grew heavier and spent the evening reading about the first kings of Portugal—an interesting bunch of characters that I will return to in a later post.
Toward the very edge of the world

Despite their tendency towards lugubriousness, I am finding the Portuguese to be a warm friendly people. Friends that I only knew through social media, Vanda & Miguel and their delightful son, Afonso, took us on a wonderful tour of the Sintra area where the nobility liked to spend their summers since Moorish times—and probably before.
It’s the type of place that appeals to the senses, warm and fertile, and the gentle rains and mists would make any Celt feel at home. It is not unlike the west coast of Ireland only with fewer seasons per day.

The hillsides are dotted with spectacular mansions that date back centuries, growing more spectacular as they rise up the sides of the mountain to where an old castle dominates.

Beyond that, we also visited Cabo da Roca which is the most westerly point on the European mainland. The 16th-century Portuguese poet Luís de Camões described Cabo da Roca as “Onde a terra se acaba e o mar começa” --"where the land ends and the sea begins."

It is a remarkable place that reminds you of your tiny place in it all, but does take it's toll on the foolhardy who step to close to the edge while taking selfies. I kid you not!


Ancient forests

But it was the next stop on our tour that really piqued my interest. Miguel, who holds degrees in Biology, brought us into the primeval forest. Spared the last ice age, it contains trees that are different to the senses. It is hard to describe except that you know that you are somewhere new yet very, very familiar.

Among the trees are rock formations that seem surreal. Great big blobs of things, stacked precariously on top of each other and somehow refusing to roll off down into the sea. They were probably left there by glaciers but it doesn’t take a lot of fancy to imagine giants might have had a hand in it. Really. Some, in particular, seemed very inviting to the old Celt that lurks inside of me—not to mention the recluse.

Audience participation

Coming around the corner of a busy downtown street, I stood bemused as a long line of people queued to step into a hole in the ground. Really! Traffic was blocked but no one seemed to mind, passing it off with a shrug.

Like most things that happen here, there was a very simple explanation but rather than tell you, I will invite suggestions. The first correct suggestion (email to with “hole in the street” as the subject matter) will win a signed copy of one of my titles.

I might even consider offering one for the most humorous, too.
Until the next time,


Wednesday, 29 April 2015

Following the Muse: Part 2

Saying goodbye to all that and learning to walk in clown shoes.


“Do you have jobs lined up?” they asked as they tried to understand what could drive reasonable, normal people to abandon the New World for the Old. “Do you have a house there? Do you have family there? Do you speak the language? What will you do?”
It was well meant and considerate, but at times I felt as I imagine the Portuguese navigators felt when setting out on their famous voyages from Belem which is just down the coast from where I write. After all, we now know the world is reasonably round and the chances of falling off the edge are slim.
I was saying goodbye to Toronto, Canada—a place I had lived in for almost forty years—the place where I met my wife and raised my children. It was where I worked and played for two thirds of my life. It was the place where I finally shed some of my demons and a place that I will remember fondly, though not as fondly as Dublin because that place is, and always will be, in my blood.
But Canadians (not unlike others) tend to believe that they live in the best country in the world—something that is reinforced by every politician seeking public office—so the idea that we would voluntarily quit Utopia was a bit beyond the pale.
I can accept that as I grew up just outside the pale and have spent most of my existence there, one way or another. You see, I had grown tired of the climate in Canada. And I had grown tired of watching more and more of the things I liked being replaced by things I have little time for. I suppose, in part, that I am getting older and want to spend more time enjoying the things that I value in life.
And that led me back to Portugal, that odd little place on the edge of Europe. Renowned for its faded glory, its hours of sunshine, its beautiful food, Fado and the lumpy lugubriousness of its people, it is a place not unlike Ireland in some ways but with far better weather.
I had been here a few years ago and had decided then that this was the place for me. Since then, the grinding years of austerity had taken a heavy toll but that too will end. Downtown, where tourists sit sipping coffees in the sun there is a steady procession of the victims of economic turmoil seeking help. Some are local but many are the more professional Roma from the Balkans who have also branched out into selling knock-off sunglasses and drugs—which are decriminalized here. Sometimes they combine all three activities and can be very persistent.  I did give in and bought a pair of clip-on shades but I was advised that the blocks of hash are most likely bouillon cubes coated with thin veneer of hash. Maybe some night when I am cooking something special . . .
The language is currently beyond me. My wife, who was born in the Azores, assures me it is phonetic but I can’t see that. I have tried adding ‘o’ and ‘a’ to the end of English words but that hasn’t worked.  Here the ‘ush’ sound dominates and ‘c’ sound like ‘s’ and ‘x’ like ‘c’. I am not concerned. I have learned to say that I do not speak Portuguese and smile like a total idiot. It works for now while I try to learn new things to say.
I am being a touch facetious as I have already mastered ordering coffee, gassy water and, of course, small cigars. I can say “good day,” “good afternoon,” “good night,” and “thank you” and with the right smile, that’s enough to get me through most situations.
Oh, and I have learned to explain that my dog is a bitch, which is the question on every dog-walkers lips. Sometimes I explain it with such ease that I invite further conversation and that’s when my limitations get exposed. Oh well, maybe by next week I can learn to say that the dog has some highly contagious Canadian disease and everyone would be better staying away from us.
But that’s not what I signed up for. I will learn to speak and I will learn to write. After all I am walking the same streets as Pessoa, and glimpsing much of what had disquieted him.


 Mostly the hills; Lisbon is also built on seven hills and walking in any direction requires a level of fitness and stamina not dissimilar to that found in Olympians – particularly the cross country skiers. After the first few days my feet were so sore that I could only wear my over- sized shoes—the ones I had bought to walk the dog through the snow and ice back in Toronto. They are not so much fashionable as practical but they do tend to flop around a bit—not unlike clown shoes.
Most of the time, I can keep them under control except on the walk back to our apartment.
In the length of a football field we climb the equivalent of five to six stories while twisting and turning like a dog’s hind leg. And that just gets us to the bottom of our street. Then we have to climb another two stories of steps to reach our front door. From there it is a simple matter of climbing the stairs to our apartment on the fifth floor! And all the time in clown shoes!
Naturally we are looking for a more permanent abode at a more suitable elevation and that is turning into an exciting venture of its own.  I will tell you about that the next time.





Tuesday, 13 January 2015

Publication Day

As Wandering In Exile, the second book in the Life & Times trilogy, goes out to meet the world, I wanted to mark the event with a few comments.

This is my third published work and while it never gets old, nothing can match the feel of the very first time—in this and many other things. Lagan Love will always be my wayward child of a book.

It was very different in that it was my humble homage to the side of Dublin I was most fond of—the literariness of the place. Back then, the pubs that I hung around in—callow youth that I was—were places where the giants of Irish writing had been and were still remembered and revered as the cultural pop stars that they were. Greats who were so very, very mortal too, even while shrouded in mythology.

In Born & Bred, I wanted to look at something very different but in many ways no less shrouded in mythology. Family with it ties and restraints.

Family has been described as the warm nest of love and nurturing by some, and a stinking cesspool of shared neurosis by others. My own experience—and my observations of others—suggest that while the experience of family can be one or the other, more often family is a mixture of both to greater or lesser degrees.

Now I’m not so cynical but I do strive for honest understanding as much as I can.

Family can be very caring and forgiving but can also be the breeding ground for delusion and denial. This was Danny Boyle’s experience when, as a young lad, he was raised to believe in something that he could never reconcile with the world he grew up in.

Perhaps that was because at the end of the day it is what we do that counts more than what we say and nowhere is this more obvious than in the core business of family—the raising of children.

Case in point being that Danny was raised in a pious household by a grandmother whose celebrated and admired husband had taken part in the armed conflict that liberated the land. Small wonder then that Danny should end up holding a gun.

The Ireland that he and I grew up in, like many other places, celebrated the righteousness that is the witch’s brew we concoct when we mix matters of Church and State while also endorsing those who would go out and kill for the cause. And for that sin, some of Danny’s friends, and many others who were far more real, paid with lives.  

While much of Born & Bred deals with the ramifications of family and legacy, Wandering In Exile is about the actualities of getting on with life. Danny survives his brush with fate and begins a new life in Canada and when Deirdre joins him they do what so many of us have done—start a family of their own. (Oh, if only we knew then what we know now.)

Now I won’t spoil the read on you but suffice to say that raising a family far from kith and kin presents its own myriad of problems. And like many of us, Danny and Deirdre set out to raise the children better than their parents had which I hope might draw a smile from those readers that are grandparents.

Life, as we live it today, can be very confusing and tiresome. Struggling to balance the demands of our working lives against the incessantness of young children leaves most of us so drained that bedtime cannot come soon enough. But we get through it all somehow.

In the case of Danny and Deirdre, it is at a cost but you, the reader, can decide if it was worth it.

I have my own opinions which are expounded upon in the last book, All Roads, which deals with consequences, personal and universal.

And if you do have a read for yourself, drop me a line and let me know what you think.

For a review please see: