Chasing Sunflowers in Sauramps

Chasing Sunflowers in good company on sale in in Sauramps, Alès

Short Walk to Okhaldhunga

Short Walk to Okhaldhunga

Made the Fish Longlist !!!

http://www.fishpublishing.com/2017/03/09/short-long-lists-short-story-contest-201617/

A MAGICAL Visit

Check out my regular monthly articles on our Life in the Languedoc
in Oxford Times Magazine, Limited Edition, 

http://www.oxfordtimes.co.uk/limitededition/

Library copies

Chasing Sunflowers is now available to borrow from Beverley Library. If you would like to place a copy in your local library please get in touch and I'll happily send one over.

#romance #Amsterdam #vangogh #France

The Hotel Magnificent

The Hotel Magnificent

The Hotel Magnificent stands high above a small village on the Annapurna trekking circuit of north-central Nepal, two days walk from the nearest road. It is officially called the Hotel Magnificent View but its board is too short, or perhaps broken. One thing is true, however, the view from the hotel is incredible. Perched – balanced almost – on a shale ledge on the steep slope of the hillside, the windows of the Hotel Magnificent face north-west towards the snow-capped mountains of the High-Himalaya.

The village nestles in the dip of the valley. Dan and I are tired and hungry as we descend the path towards it, thinking of dhal bat, the evening meal and hoping, maybe, for a hot shower. The blue tin roofs, testimony to its prosperity as a trekkers’ stopover, are bright and welcoming, glinting jewels in the afternoon sun. In the streets stalls are set out with displays of embroidered bags, brass bowls, ancient padlocks, fat Buddhas, carved wooden boxes, packs of incense and shawls of coloured wool. After almost two weeks in the mountains the lure of shopping is irresistible. I pause to examine a shawl, peacock blue, feather light and soft as cotton wool. But Dan wants food.

‘Come on,’ he sighs, tugging my sleeve. We follow our endlessly patient guide as he negotiates the rough, stone paving, the heaps of manure from the pack ponies and leads us eventually to a flight of steep steps.

‘I can’t get up there,’ I grumble. ‘I’m too tired.’

He shrugs apologetically.

‘Village very busy. Peak season for trekking. Vacancies only here.’

No option then. We climb, slowly. At the top of the steps I draw a sharp breath. Dan and I have seen many stunning views in the last ten days, but this one is right up there. The village huddles below us, all its defects photo-shopped out by distance, and beyond, against a deep blue sky, rise the peaks of Annapurna South, Himchuli and Machapuchare, some of the highest mountains in the world.

On the terrace of the Hotel Magnificent is a stall identical in every detail to the ones we have passed, except that somehow the shawls here are even more colourful, even more desirable.

‘I give you good price,’ the salesman whispers. His voice is as slick and dark as his hair. His right hand hovers above his jacket pocket as he passes a string of wooden beads through his fingers, each one a prayer. I shake my head and edge away. He smiles, knowingly, as if it is only a matter of time. His shawls are beautiful, woven from yak wool and dyed a rainbow of colours that are as velvety bright as a bird’s wing. They sit in luxurious piles. I covet them.

The view, regrettably, turns out to be the only remarkable thing about the Hotel Magnificent. Thrown up from concrete blocks to serve growing numbers of trekkers, it is an ugly creation, clinging to the mountain like a cyst. The interior is constructed entirely of wafer thin sheets of plywood, fire-ready kindling. Downstairs a large communal room is set out with tables and benches. Above them two solar-powered light bulbs hang from a fragile-looking cable. An oil-drum, which has been reinvented as a wood-burning stove, squats importantly in the centre of the floor.  At the top of the rickety stairs is a cupboard-sized nook containing a bed, a blanket and a small pile of clothes, dhobi-washed and drained of colour or feature. The distance between the bed and a vast plate-glass window is perhaps sixty centimetres but the view it offers over the mountains gives the illusion of infinite space. This room has no door.

‘Who do you think sleeps there?’

Dan shrugs. ‘Don’t know, but we’re next to them.’

Our room is the other side of the flimsy wall. My bed is pushed against it. This unknown person will be closer to me than Dan. I will hear every sound he makes, all through the night.

We dump our bags and stretch a towel across the window to serve as a curtain.

‘I’m going to see if there’s hot water,’ I say. I have hat hair, lank and lifeless. I enquire and a woman, possibly the owner, leads me to a small, stone room containing a dirty toilet and an electric shower. She explains under what precise conditions these might be persuaded to work. I pay 100 Nepali rupees, seventy pence, about the same as a Mars bar.

‘Waste of money,’ I report back.

Later, Dan and I sit on the hotel terrace, an unfenced cliff edge high above the village, enjoying the late afternoon sun. We crane our necks around a washing line adorned with grey underwear and several stained sheets to enjoy the magnificent view. I sip a lassi savouring the sweetness of the curd and sugar mix, and feel the energy creep back into my muscles after the day’s walk. My bones melt a little in the last rays of warmth. I’m contemplating the shawls.

Nearby, a very small child is playing in the dirt. A babysitter, crouches beside her with a mobile phone welded to her palm. Every few seconds she peels back her fingers to check the screen. When the toddler moves, she reaches out listlessly and pulls her back. Sometimes she is too slow and the child dashes to the edge of the terrace where she hovers, crowing with mirth at the sight of the land falling away beneath her and the smallness of the houses below. Then the teenager rises sluggishly, swishes across to the child and turns her back as if she were a clockwork doll. But the child likes the view and the sequence is repeated again and again.

The babysitter checks her phone once more and gives a satisfied nod.

‘Hoi, Yeshi. She waves imperiously at the stall holder and points to the little girl. Yeshi hesitates. He has seen another batch of tourists heading up the hotel steps. He is not young, I realise. His body is bulky and there are threads of grey in his hair. He raises his arm in a gesture of supplication but the teenager has pulled a mirror from a cloth pouch and is examining her eyeliner. The toddler is occupied, swiping a stick at a hen pecking in the dirt. Yeshi watches, his face creased. The babysitter tugs a broken comb through her long, black hair and flounces to the steps, crossing the tourists on her way down.

‘Hoi,’ they call out to Dan and I. ‘That’s some climb.’ I know instantly from their accents that they are Dutch. The women are interested in the stall and pause, fingering the brass padlocks, trying on the beanies, tapping the singing bowls to hear them resonate. Yeshi is trapped with the toddler and the chicken. He looks longingly across.

Good price. I give you good price. I can feel the song chiming in his head. Beside me, Dan is sipping a beer, Everest.

‘A mountain in a bottle,’ he jokes. He has nodded to the Dutch guy, who is standing apart smoking a cigarette. The women have begun sorting through the shawls and Yeshi cannot help himself. He glances down at the child, preoccupied for the moment with her game. He makes his decision and sidles across.

‘I give you good price. Fourteen hundred rupees. Only fourteen hundred Nepali rupees.’

‘That is too much,’ one of the women objects. The standard response. This is the game. Both parties are quickly absorbed. Occasionally Yeshi flicks a glance towards the baby. She has abandoned the chicken and wandered towards the woodpile at the back of the terrace. No real danger there.

She is perhaps twenty months this tiny girl, pretty in her shabbiness, soft trousers washed to a pinky-grey, spiky black hair just visible beneath her woollen hat, miniature down jacket hiding her fragility beneath its bulk. I watch her as she potters.

Yeshi is engrossed in his transaction. The Dutch women are smiling and have taken their purses from their backpacks. Moments pass. A cloud slides across the sun and the terrace chills and darkens. The toddler abandons the woodpile in search of more animated entertainment. Yeshi is rummaging happily in his pouch for change. The baby ambles towards the front of the ledge waving her arms at something she has seen, or imagines she has seen, in the village below.

I stand up as casually as I can and spot the babysitter languidly approaching the steps. The toddler sees her too and picks up speed. She is making a wobbly dash towards the older girl on pattering feet, her arms outstretched in welcome. Yeshi swivels, clocks the danger and his features contort.

I was born for this moment. I take the fastest five strides of my life and seize the child’s hood. Her foot slips on the gravelly edge of the rock but she is feather light. The coat holds her while I scoop her up with my free hand. She yells in fear and protest but I close my eyes and feel the wash of relief as I close my arm round her. The babysitter runs up the last few steps and grabs her from me waving a fist at the stallholder, sending him a staccato burst of invective. He recoils like a beaten dog against the wall of the hotel. His right hand reaches for his wooden beads. She is still haranguing him as she ducks through the door with the weeping child. Dan wraps his arms around me and I bury my head in his shoulder.

Our guide appears.  

‘The man over there,’ I ask, shakily, ‘is he part of the family that owns the hotel?’

 ‘I think just working here in return for bed.’ He pauses. ‘Your dinner is ready.’

We leave the terrace in the last shafts of sunlight and follow him inside. As we pass the stall I stroke the shawls.

‘I give you good price.’ Yeshi fixes me with his gaze.

‘We don’t have space,’ Dan reminds me.

‘They would fold up very small.’

‘Not small enough.’

‘I could wear them.’ I imagine descending the mountain swathed in rainbows of yak wool.

Dan pulls an exasperated face.

We spend the evening crowded around the wood-burner with the other guests, trying to shuffle close enough to feel its warmth, straining to read in the dim light. The babysitter is off duty now. She has a chair near the fire and sits with her legs tucked under her, her hand still wrapped round her phone.  The toddler patters about in pursuit of a dirty cloth ball that the guests take turns to throw. Her mother, probably babysitter’s sister, keeps a watchful eye.

Weary from the fresh air and tired of squinting at scruffy paperbacks, the backpackers peel off in ones and twos and head upstairs to sleep. Dan and I follow. In the room with no door a figure is sitting cross-legged on the bed. Yeshi is murmuring some mantra in the dark as he stares out at the mountains white and luminous as gods in the moonlight. Through his fingers his prayer beads pass.

Overnight, the yearning for a shawl grows inside me, seeping through the flimsy wall. In the morning I stop at the stall once more.

‘I give you good price,’ Yeshi nods, his voice sliding easily over the well-oiled phrase.

‘I suppose we can fit one in,’ Dan sighs.

I choose the purple, rich and royal as a bishop’s gown.

‘Your room has a beautiful view,’ I observe, handing over a stupidly small number of notes.

‘Yes,’ he says, quietly. His smile is incandescent. ‘I am very lucky.’

Great new short story - Mrs Bond's Birthday

... now published in Oxfordshire Limited Edition magazine and on here - see below!

Mrs Bond's Birthday

Mrs Bond – I didn’t invite you to call me Patricia - looked out of the window of her bungalow hoping to see a few snowdrops. As far as she could tell, these were the only consolation for having a birthday in January. A promise from the planet that spring was, if not just around the corner, then at least pencilled in. She had tried on several occasions to persuade her family to move the celebration to June, but they resisted.

‘It wouldn’t feel the same,’ her daughters protested. Or even more prosaically; ‘But it’s not the real date.’ She was singularly disappointed in their lack of imagination. Who cared what date it was? Clearly not the Queen, who celebrated her ‘official’ birthday with enthusiasm and persuaded the entire nation to do the same. The point surely was to mark the passing of the years, the necessity of which was in any case debatable, but if people insisted then she would have preferred to do it when the sun was shining.

She sighed. This birthday was more tiresome than usual because today Mrs Bond was eighty. It had come round several years sooner than she expected but there it was, unquestionably and indubitably true because she remembered the war.

‘And it dates one so,’ as she had recently remarked to her small, round dog. There wasn’t much hope of hiding her age as several of her nearest and dearest had sent large cards announcing the fact. Why they had felt the need to do this she had absolutely no idea. Did they think;

a) that she would be pleased to put such a card on her shelf, seeing it as evidence they had remembered her advanced age?

b) that she thought a large number 8 and a large 0 were more decorative than pictures of flowers or animals?

c) that she might have forgotten and would need the cards to remind her?  

None of these was remotely true – she would take the flowers every time. Yet of the eleven cards she had received from her assorted children, grandchildren and neighbours, seven featured the numbers 8 and 0, notably those from her family. These she had glanced at with distaste and displayed on the shelf in the garage beside her tobacco tin and ashtray full of dog ends. There they could stay, she decided, until they went into the recycling bin, which would be Friday week. The neighbours had not drawn attention to her age simply because she told them all the she was 74, which was no age to speak of and didn’t require a special card. It was important, however, not to let on that she remembered the war.

How complicated life is apt to become as one grows older, she reflected. Keeping up with the myriad small deceptions one accumulates grows increasingly onerous.

On the plus side, she thought she might have spotted a solitary snowdrop under the apple tree but it was impossible to tell without actually venturing out there to check. She might do that later, but she could see from the sitting room that it was decidedly chilly and would require several protective layers: time-consuming both to apply and then to remove. It could wait.

Instead, for a change of scene, she walked across the room to examine the view from the front of the house. Hip was playing up again, she noted, crossly, clenching her jaw. Might have to have it seen to after all. She leant on the back of an armchair catching her breath and waiting for the pain to subside. When she looked up she saw that Margaret-next-door had pottered – tottered, Mrs Bond corrected herself – into the garden with a bag of stale bread for the birds. The third Margaret in as many years. She often wondered if it was a problem with the house – cyanide-impregnated lino or some such. You couldn’t really ask though, could you? She pushed the blinds aside and waved. Margaret waved unsteadily back. The cyanide was obviously getting to her too. Pity as she seemed quite pleasant. Mrs Bond had decided some time previously that there was no point trying to build up a proper relationship with her elderly neighbours. Usually you had just got used to them, on cup-of-tea terms so to speak, when they popped their clogs and a new one came in. Very sad, of course, but also disconcerting for someone who liked a bit of constancy in a street.

She let the blinds drop back and peered through the slits instead. She liked her blinds. So much more discreet than the net curtains her mother had favoured. No twitching required. The postlady leaned her bicycle on the garden wall and marched up the path. An envelope fell through the letter box but Mrs Bond didn’t rush over. She could see from where she was that it was another bill. No presents yet. That was a bit of a shame as she quite enjoyed opening them in the morning with her coffee, though disappointingly these days she received mainly shawls and scarves. Woolly things to wrap around her as she sat or hobbled about. All very cosy and many of them probably very expensive but… she quite wished someone would buy her something frivolous, a silk negligée maybe. She would never wear it, of course, but she would lay it between layers of tissue paper in her underwear drawer and get it out to stroke from time to time. She would imagine how it might have looked on her when she was younger and how Mr Bond might have smiled to see her in it. She glanced sadly across at the photo on the mantelpiece. He was there as usual, sitting in a garden chair admiring his dahlias. She mouthed a silent ‘hello’.

Pulling a tissue from her sleeve, Mrs Bond blew her nose firmly. Margaret had gone back in and the street was empty. There was nothing much to see. No mothers hurrying along with pushchairs or teenagers slouching past on their way to the comprehensive. It was Saturday, of course, and she had a nasty feeling her daughters were planning something sociable despite her avowed wish that nothing of the sort should occur. It gave people ideas when things fell at the weekend.

Mrs Bond had several family members in close vicinity, all of whom were very capable organisers. She had moved back to the small, unprepossessing town where she had spent the early years of her marriage after she lost Mr Bond, thinking that she might as well be there as anywhere else. It was flat and unlikely to prove challenging as the years advanced. However, children and grandchildren had followed her there in order, it seemed, that she should not spent her retirement idly. On the contrary, she would be gainfully occupied looking after their various animals and offspring while they travelled abroad or held down well-paid jobs in the city.

‘She likes to feel useful,’ they remarked. ‘It’s so good for her to have something to do.’

Mrs Bond knew they said this because she had overheard it on several occasions. They thought she was deaf. And sometimes she was, but not always. In fact, not nearly as often as they thought.

A small fluffy cat jumped up onto the windowsill and rubbed itself along her arm.

‘Just a minute,’ she said. The kitten presumably fancied a drop of milk. She had called the creature Maggie after her ill-fated neighbours. It seemed the simplest thing to do – no new names to have to remember –  and it was a way of ensuring continuity on the Margaret front. Anyway, she told herself, it was a perfectly reasonable name because it sounded quite a lot like moggie. Leaning on her stick Mrs Bond crossed to the kitchen with surprising speed.

‘Not so bad once I get going,’ she observed. Maggie purred her acquiescence.

Time was getting on. Kitchen Cabinet had just been announced on the radio and she really couldn’t be doing with Jay Rayner. Anyway, that meant that daughter number one was late. She was usually here by now to take her shopping. Just because it was her birthday didn’t mean she didn’t need groceries for the week. Perhaps Debbie would have time to stop for coffee and a scone in Sainsbury’s. Often she was too busy but given the occasion Mrs Bond didn’t think it would be too much to ask. The whole idea of being taken to places irked her. She had a practically new Clio sitting in the drive and if it wasn’t for this hip… Hmph.

The buzz of the doorbell woke the little round dog from its snooze and it barked twice without bothering to get up. Mrs Bond didn’t move either. She had settled herself in a chair by the garden window. Deborah had a key; the bell was just a formality.

‘Hello, Mum. Happy Birthday.’

Is it, her mother wondered. Could it possibly be, given the number involved? Her daughter handed her a soft parcel, prettily tied with a bow.

‘Thank you, dear.’ Mrs Bond poked the package, reluctant to unwrap it and lose the moment of anticipation. It was probably a scarf, but while it stayed in its paper it still might be the negligée.

‘Don’t you want to open it?’

‘Maybe when we get back.’

Deborah shook her head. ‘Whatever. Are you ready?’

‘Of course. Just let me get my coat.’

‘So do you think we might have time for a scone, dear?’ Mrs Bond enquired as Deborah toured the car park searching for a space.

‘I’m sure we will if we don’t take too long with the shopping.’

‘Good. Well, I don’t need much.’

Her daughter shook her head doubtfully.

She seems a bit more relaxed today, the older woman decided. Sometimes she could be very sharp though she hardly seemed to know it. Those kids ran rings round her. She needed to get them helping a bit instead of always picking up after them.

‘It’s easier to do it myself,’ Deborah had said when this was suggested. But it was all a question of training, in Mrs Bond’s opinion. Children weren’t so different from puppies, after all.

They got round reasonably quickly. The list seemed to get shorter every week. Maybe she should listen to that tiresome Jay Rayner, after all, improve her culinary expertise before she got to the meals-on-wheels stage.

On the way to the café, they paused so that Mrs Bond could examine the nighties. She supposed she might be in need of a new one if they were going to cart her off to hospital with this blessed hip.  None of them really took her fancy, however. Inferior fabric, she considered, rubbing it between her thumb and forefinger. She caught Deborah watching her from the end of the aisle with a distinctly amused expression which she decided to ignore.

‘Nothing there, Mum?’

‘All synthetic,’ Mrs Bond sniffed.

The scone was nice though. An excellent bake, although Mrs Berry might disagree. And blackcurrant jam to go with it.

‘We should probably go,’ Deborah said, when they had drunk their tea.

‘I suppose you have a lot to do?’

‘A few bits and pieces. The weekends never seem long enough.’ She was texting furiously as she spoke, her mother noticed. No wonder she was stressed. The older lady got carefully to her feet, reaching for her stick as she did so.

Deborah pushed the phone into her bag and took her arm. ‘Ready?’

Mrs Bond shook her off. ‘I can manage.’

They moved slowly back to the car with the trolley.

That was it then, Mrs Bond supposed as they pulled into her drive. Today’s excitement over. She had half-wondered if there might be a couple more cars parked outside but the street was quiet. Deborah lifted the bag of shopping from the boot while she pushed open the door.

‘Surprise surprise!!’ The bungalow was packed with people.

Surprise! Who did they think they were kidding? Hadn’t she known all along? That was the trouble with weekends, everyone was at a loose end. Mrs Bond smiled graciously at her assembled descendants.

‘How kind of you all to come.’ The table was piled high with gifts. She settled herself into her chair and unwrapped them slowly, savouring each one; three books by her favourite authors, two scarves, a bottle of Samsara perfume and a bar of Frys chocolate cream from the smallest grandchild. At the bottom of the pile she found the parcel Deborah had given her that morning. The last one. She undid the bow, removed the patterned wrapping paper and peeled back a layer of tissue to reveal not quite a negligée but definitely a silk nightdress. Something she could actually wear. She stroked her hand across it, watching the light play on the fabric.

‘Perhaps that will do for the hospital?’ Deborah suggested, quietly.

Mrs Bond extracted her tissue from her sleeve to remove a fly from the corner of her eye.

‘Yes,’ she said, scanning the crowd of familiar faces. ‘I think perhaps it might. Thank you. Thank you, all.’

for Mum

On display in bookshop!

It's been a good week. I discovered Chasing Sunflowers on display in Coles Bookstore, Bicester, and received a message from my old English teacher saying he had bought a copy and 'really, really liked it.' I couldn't have been more pleased.

And look out for my new short story Mrs Bond's Birthday in a future edition of the Oxford Times magazine, 'Limited Edition'.

Oxford Times - fame at last!

A mention for Chasing Sunflowers in the Oxford Times. How cool is that! And they want me to write a short story for them too. Thinking...

Chasing Sunflowers Book Signing!

Excited! I'll be signing copies of Chasing Sunflowers at Teapotes, Anduze on Saturday 23rd January. 

Please come along and say hello if you live in the area.
No obligation to purchase a copy (though that would be great, of course) just browse the fab stock of English books (we're in France here!) and sample the delicious cake.

Nepal Jaleshwari Expedition

Just before Christmas I took some time out to visit the village of Jaleshwari in Khotang, Nepal with our charity Nepal Remote Villages Trust.

What a marvellous experience. Lots of pictures on www.nepalrvt.org.

And plenty of inspiration for a future novel. :)

Chasing Sunflowers - where to buy!

Chasing Sunflowers is now also available from Cole's Bookstore, Bicester and from Tea Potes in Anduze. 

Look out for dates for signings at Tea Potes!

Cole's Bookstore, Bicester

Languedoc & Provence Sun

Chasing Sunflowers is the Bookshelf choice in the latest edition of the Languedoc & Provence Sun. If you haven't seen a copy you can read the article here:

Chasing Sunflowers

Chasing Sunflowers is the compelling new novel by Midi author Alison Boulton set in Arles and Amsterdam and peppered with insights into the work of artist Vincent van Gogh.

The book:

Kate has moved, somewhat reluctantly, to Holland. Searching for something to fill the gap in her life now son Luke is at school, she decides to study Van Gogh’s paintings. She explores his work through classes taught by the enigmatic artist and teacher, Rudy de Jong. Rudy paints her in his studio high above the canals and Kate discovers her bolder alter ego, Kaatje.  Kate’s story is interwoven with fragments from Van Gogh’s own and she eventually decides to trace Vincent’s journey to Provence and see the sunflower fields that so inspired him for herself.

The author:

In 2002 Alison Boulton moved to Languedoc Roussillon with husband Chris Burns and their family, to renovate a neglected château and set up a little holiday business in the foothills of the Cevennes. Fresh from a Creative Writing MA she had lots of romantic ideas about tucking herself away to write novels, but the realities of establishing the business and earning a living in a new country meant those plans were postponed. Now the children have grown up, the Château du Fraissinet welcomes holidaymakers every summer season and the dream of publishing a book has finally come true.

***

The inspiration:

Alison says: Whilst it is definitely fiction, Chasing Sunflowers also draws on my own experience and this gives the book an authentic feel. The story blends passion with family drama and most readers will be able to relate to the heroine, Kate, as she struggles to establish herself in a new place.

The novel was conceived a couple of winters ago and it began quite simply with a mental image of a small boy painting sunflowers for his mother after a trip to the Van Gogh museum. I lived in Amsterdam for three years with my (then) young family but the vision I conjured of four-year-old Luke never happened as it is written. Neither, I must add, did the rest of the book! Like most writers I find the writing process is part planning and part unconscious creation. I start with an idea and a plot outline but often the imagination takes over and creates something new and occasionally unforeseen.

The original image of Luke with his picture grew into a short story and then, quite slowly, into a novel. Luke’s experience of immersion in Dutch school and the struggle of learning a second language is something that many L&P Sun readers will identify with. Initially, he struggles to fit in and looks forward to his friend Henry visiting from England. This is echoed in the novel by Van Gogh waiting in the Yellow House in Arles for Gauguin, and painting the Sunflowers pictures to welcome his friend.

Vincent van Gogh (1853-1890)

Many readers will already be familiar with the outlines of Vincent’s story. He was born in a small town in the Netherlands, the eldest son of a Protestant preacher and seems to have been a very intense and serious young man who found it difficult to connect with other people and was often lonely. As an adult he suffered from severe bouts of poor mental health. He was very aware of the problem and voluntarily admitted himself to asylums on more than one occasion, waiting there until he felt well enough to return to the world. His parents were disappointed when he chose to pursue a ‘career’ as an artist but his brother, Theo, spotted his potential and supported him, sending him money so he could concentrate on his painting. Theo continued to do this even when he was struggling to support his own family on limited funds.

In 1888 Van Gogh travelled to Arles in search of the sun, light and colour that he was unable to find in northern Europe. This was one of the most creative periods of his life and masterpiece after masterpiece emerged from the tiny ‘Studio of the South’ in the Yellow House at the Place Lamartine. It was a breakdown here that led to his famous split with Gauguin and the severance of Vincent’s ear. Today, Vincent van Gogh is widely held to have been a genius whose bold use of colour and passion for painting the world as he saw it, changed art forever. But sadly, his incredible talent was not widely recognised until after his death.

When I moved to Amsterdam I was already a fan of Van Gogh so the museum was an immediate attraction and I visited many times. It is housed in an impressive, modern building and has a permanent queue outside! When I came to the south of France in 2002 I was immediately drawn to Arles because of its Van Gogh connection, but returning in 2011 when I was researching the novel gave it a whole new perspective. Like Kate in Chasing Sunflowers, I completed the Van Gogh tour shown in the tourist leaflet and would definitely recommend it for admirers of Vincent’s work.

The Van Gogh Foundation in Arles was not built when I wrote the initial draft of the book but I have gone back for a visit. It is a joy to see Vincent’s paintings in a city that was his home during such a vital and creative period of his life.

Chasing Sunflowers is not just for fans of Van Gogh but will appeal to anyone who loves contemporary fiction with a good splash of passion and mystery woven in.

Chasing Sunflowers is available on Amazon and from Completely Novel

Alison Boulton is also author of Tom’s Daughters available on Amazon for Kindle. 

Chasing Sunflowers on sale in Nimes Airport

Chasing Sunflowers now on sale in Nimes Airport shop. 
Pick up a copy to read while you wait for the plane or treat someone for Christmas.
€15

Chasing Sunflowers - feedback

Have just finished Alison Boulton's amazing book "Chasing Sunflowers". I didn't want it to end! A cracking story which gallops along with twists and turns, is sensitive and brilliant! Thank you. Alison
Feedback from Patricia Cooper, Languedoc Roussillon, France

Real readers are loving the book, so why not the agents???

Chasing Sunflowers - Lord of the BookCovers?

Chasing Sunflowers stunning cover has been short-listed for the Completely Novel Lord of the Book Covers competition. We're not entirely surprised - it's so gorgeous, vibrant and so completely pickuppable!
To make sure it wins please
VOTE CHASING SUNFLOWERS
using this link  http://ow.ly/SCg9P

Chasing Sunflowers - loving these pics of the book in different places!

Please email me a pic of your copy.

Chasing Sunflowers - author interview by Katie O'Rourke

INTERVIEW WITH AUTHOR ALISON BOULTON

Years ago, I discovered a book called Tom’s Daughterson a writing website and it was so good that I bought a version when it was self-published. It was the first e-book I ever purchased and remains one of the best I’ve read. I still remember the characters like they were real people. So when I heard that the author, Alison Boulton, was publishing a second novel – I jumped at the chance to do an interview.

KO: What did you learn about self-publishing from your first book? How are things different this time around?

AB: An acquaintance suggested that he helped me self-publish Tom’s Daughters as an e-book to see if he could ‘make us both a fortune.’ I was happy to accept this as it hadn’t been picked up despite being sent to numerous agents. I wasn’t comfortable negotiating the formatting and the technical stuff required to put in on Amazon for Kindle. He also did the cover from a photo I provided and set up a website. I think the deal was that he got 25% of revenues. The downside was that when sales were slow he lost interest and I got frustrated nagging for information and at not having control to update accounts myself.

This time round I wanted control from the beginning, and I also wanted a book that I could hold in my hand. I’ll put it on Kindle later, of course, but having the paperback makes publication and being a writer feel much more real. I think other people’s reactions have been more positive too.

KO: Where do you get your story inspiration from?

AB: For me a story starts with an image or a couple of images that are linked in some way. With Tom’s Daughters I wanted to write about sisters, but there was also the picture of a young woman with a small child in North London. The issue of the mysterious father was hovering in the background.

With Chasing Sunflowers it was again the image of a child, this time a boy, painting sunflowers for his mother. It was clear they were in Amsterdam where I also lived for a few years, and that the mother was lonely.

I then have to sit and try and work out the bones of a plot. Sometimes I write random scenes or conversations. Chasing Sunflowers was written first as a short story, but then it slowly grew into a novel, changing and developing in the process. The actual ending was the last thing to become clear.

KO: What kind of writer are you? Do you plot everything out before writing or does it evolve throughout the process? Do you force yourself to write every day? How long does it take to write a novel?

AB: The writing definitely evolves, but there has to be a certain amount of plotting too, plus a timeline of events. It always takes me a while at the beginning to sort dates out – how old was that character when this happened, etc.? And some thought must go into how the threads of the story entwine and unfold to keep the reader interested. There should, I think, always be some sort of denouement at the end. And I don’t really like sad endings, so I haven’t written one yet!

And it takes me ages to finish a novel, maybe even two or three years, because other stuff – like teaching and running our holiday complex – get in the way. I have to earn a living, unfortunately. I’m hoping the next one, currently called The Red Balloon, will be quicker though. And I do try to at least look at it every day but I don’t always succeed.

KO: Tell us about Chasing Sunflowers. Who is your audience?

AB: Chasing Sunflowers is the story of Kate, who moves to Amsterdam with her husband and young son. Lost and lonely in a new city, she develops a passion for the paintings of Vincent van Gogh. Her decision to study them leads her to artist Rudy de Jong and following in Vincent’s footsteps, she makes a trip to Arles which transforms her life.

So, it’s a book about a woman who steps outside her own life, and how the experience changes her. There’s quite a lot about Amsterdam, the south of France and Vincent van Gogh too.

My first audience is me, since it was me I told the story to first and I liked it. So after that people a bit like me, I suppose; usually female, maybe over 25, though my daughters who are 20 and 22 enjoyed it too.

KO: What are your favorite books?

AB: I mostly read books about ‘real’ people and characters in plausible situations. I’m not a fan of Magic Realism or Fantasy novels. I hate anything sensationalist, badly written or too soppy. I love Ian McEwan, AS Byatt, Anne Tyler, and Doris Lessing amongst many others. Some of Lessing’s writing is futuristic, but then I love the prophetic nature of her work. Also EM Forster; I always say Howards End is my favourite book. I don’t know if it’s really true but it’s definitely up there.

KO: Alison, thanks so much for sharing and best of luck with the new book.

Interviewer Katie O Rourke. Originally published on Todays Author http://todaysauthor.com/2015/08/26/interview-with-author-alison-boulton/

Chasing Sunflowers - a snippet

'Panneau' of Van Gogh's painting; les Alyschamps, Arles

‘Here’s the panneau,’ Rudy said. ‘It’s a study of autumn leaves rather than the burial ground.’

Kate examined the picture. It wasn’t a painting of history. Vincent seemed to have lived quite spectacularly in the present; autumn trees, the long alley, the cold blue-grey stone of the tombs, figures – people moving across the canvas. A transiting moment captured and stilled, a slither of time under a microscope.‘It’s typical of him. He’s painted almost nothing and seen everything,’ she said at length.‘Now you begin to understand,’ Rudy approved. To hide her pleasure, Kate tossed her head and walked faster towards the half-ruined church that awaited them at the end of the path.

Chasing Sunflowers - now in France!

Chasing Sunflowers - the books have arrived for distribution in France! 

Also available from https://completelynovel.com/books/chasing-sunflowers