When life gives you lemons, write about it!
The Place We Call Home
by Faith Hogan
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The Place We Call Home by Faith Hogan
About the book
Welcome to Ballycove, the home of Corrigan Mills...
Set against the backdrop of the beautiful Irish countryside the famed mills have created the finest wool in all of Ireland. Run by the seemingly perfect Corrigan family, but every family has its secrets, and how the mills came to be the Corrigan's is one of them...
Miranda and her husband were never meant to own the mills, until one fateful day catapults them into a life they never thought they'd lead.
Ada has forever lived her life in her sister's shadow. Wanting only to please her mother and take her place as the new leader of the mill, Ada might just have to take a look at what her heart really wants.
Callie has a flourishing international career as a top designer and a man who loves her dearly, she appears to have it all. When a secret is revealed and she's unceremoniously turfed out of the design world, Callie might just get what's she's been yearning for. The chance to go home.
Simon has always wanted more. More money, more fame, more notoriety. The problem child. Simon has made more enemies than friends over the years, and when one of his latest schemes falls foul he'll have to return to the people who always believe in him.
Ballycove isn't just a town in the Irish countryside. It isn't just the base of the famous mills. It's a place to call home.
About the author
Faith lives in the west of Ireland with her husband, four children and two very fussy cats. She has an Hons Degree in English Literature and Psychology, has worked as a fashion model and in the intellectual disability and mental health sector.
Enjoy an excerpt from The Place We Call Home. Thanks to Aria Fiction
Miranda Reilly clambered up the hill slowly. The heat made her cotton dress damp against her back, and the stitching cut into her narrow shoulders and arms. It was a size too small, but her mother insisted that another year could be knocked out of it. Her discomfort was heightened by the box of vegetables she carried in her arms, heavy and cumbersome and her excuse to escape the fraught atmosphere of home. It was worth being out of breath to make this short journey.
Most days, she ambled up to old Mrs Bridgestock’s cottage on an errand of some sort. It was only a short distance really, but it was such a delightful place it might as well have been in the next county, so far removed was it from the bleak tone of her upended home. It seemed to Miranda that Mrs Bridgestock could be the oldest person in the world. She wore her dresses long and black. Her hair, white and held with pins, framed her soft and lined face in the same fashion as it had some fifty years earlier in the wedding photo that sat on the sideboard. Although Mrs Bridgestock wore the marks of age in her stooped shoulders and slow walk, the woman in the photograph, staring lovingly at the man next to her, would always be who she truly was. There was that same generous glint in the old lady’s eye and no-one ever called but they weren’t offered the little her cupboards held to bolster them for whatever might come next. Miranda sometimes marvelled at the treats the old lady had put aside for her visits.
She eagerly made her way forwards now, thinking of what they might share today and how they might sit and talk about how things were when Mrs Bridgestock was a girl. As much as Miranda dreamed of living in this cottage one day, she aspired to growing into an old lady like Mrs Bridgestock – although she’d never admit this to another living soul.
In the distance she could just about see the chimneys of Bridgestock Cottage peep above the wall of ash and rowan trees that shaded the farmhouse from winter winds and prying eyes. It was a lazy morning on the cusp of summer and Ballycove welcomed the sun as it did everything else that came its way, balancing a languid acceptance with reluctant eagerness. In truth, it seemed to Miranda Reilly, that the only thing that this village had greeted with any great excitement had been the return of her father a few weeks earlier. The whole village turned out to welcome back Harry Reilly – after four years of war and six of convalescing. In a place that Miranda knew only as St Hugh’s, some nameless doctor that her mother couldn’t thank enough had set him on the journey home. The sun didn’t shine that day, but flags blew vigorously on the breezy afternoon wind and the whole street lined out to greet the returned hero. Funny, how things can turn out so differently to how you expect.
What an amazing journey 2019 has been.
I have made some amazing friends through my writing, reviewing and blogging and I am so grateful for you all! I thank God for giving me the courage to put myself out there, my husband and family for believing in me, and all of you for inspiring me with your incredible talents.
I have been blessed to be involved in several commitments that will keep me deliriously busy! So...starting in the new year, I will be committing to more of my author interview projects, networking with authors and publishers, growing my platform and most importantly, focusing on developing my own writing.
I will still be librarian-ing, editing, blogging, selectively reviewing, and doing my best to remain current and media-present.
“One day you will wake up and there won’t be any more time to do the things you’ve always wanted. Do it now.” Paulo Coelho
...it is time to take my pen in hand and...scribe!
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