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Judith Sterling

~ Award-winning Author

Judith Sterling

Tag Archives: travel

Impetus Toward Ireland

22 Saturday Jul 2017

Posted by Judith Sterling in Uncategorized

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Guardians of Erin, Ireland, Irish, Judith Sterling, Killarney, new release, paranormal, paranormal fantasy, The Cauldron Stirred, travel, YA series, young adult

One night in the summer before my senior year of high school, I kicked off my bedcovers with a vengeance. I snatched my glasses from the nightstand and glared at the ticking clock.

1:00 a.m. and all was NOT well.

I’d fidgeted for almost two hours, and sleep remained a stranger. Rolling my eyes, I abandoned my bed, then slunk through the house and out the back door.

Humidity hugged my skin like a second aura. With a sigh, I pushed up the sleeves of my nightgown and scanned the backyard. Spanish moss dangled from the oak trees. Moonlight touched the pool. Frogs croaked their hardest, but the sharp drone of crickets stole the show.

“Why am I so restless?” I asked aloud. “How can you yearn for something you can’t even name?”

As though sharing a private joke, the stars above winked.

The night held no answers; the mosquitoes showed no mercy. So I stole back into the house to worship the miracle of air conditioning and find something to read.

In the living room, I searched the shelves until my gaze locked on a book I’d never seen: Ireland – A Picture Book to Remember Her By. I grabbed it and settled on the velvet couch.

From the moment I opened the book, I changed. Waves of emotion rushed over me: love, sorrow, and strangest of all, homesickness. Gratitude flooded my heart and mind, for this was what I’d sought. I turned each page with reverence, melding my being with the images thereon.

It was crazy. I was born and raised in blazingly hot, equatorial Florida, about as far from Ireland and its blissfully cool climate as you can get. Before that night, I’d never considered the Emerald Isle. Not once. Now my whole life seemed to have led me to the discovery that I was somehow linked to that distant land.

Desire and will swelled within me, and I squeezed the book to my chest. I knew what I must do.

I jumped up and raced to my sleeping parents’ bedroom. “Mom! Dad!”

My father grunted, but my mother bolted upright in bed. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I just wanted to tell you my decision. I’m going to Ireland.”

She squinted. “What, tonight?”

“No, but soon. I have to go.”

Dad rolled over. A rumble of complaint sounded, either from his throat or his stomach.

Mom glanced at the clock, then sank back onto her pillow. “Fine. But let’s talk about it in the morning, okay?”

When morning arrived, I did more than talk. Truth be told, I ate far too many donuts, but I must’ve burned off the calories during my impassioned plea. It was Ireland or bust! My unsuspecting parents didn’t know what to make of my new obsession, but Dad informed me my great-grandfather had emigrated from Ireland in 1914. How this fact escaped my notice for 17 years is beyond me, but now that I knew of my Irish heritage, I was unstoppable.

My grandfather had the address of our Irish cousins in County Kilkenny, and I obtained it faster than you can say Éirinn go Brách. Soon after, I became pen pals with one of the cousins, and we exchanged letters, photos, and even a phone call over the next 10 months.

My enthusiasm for Ireland was contagious, and by senior graduation, three round-trip plane tickets waited on my parents’ desk. The Three Musketeers—Mom, Dad, and I—were bound for Shannon Airport.

Excitement forbade sleep on the long flight over, so after we’d shuffled through customs, traded dollars for pounds, and procured our rental car, we drove straight to our bed-and-breakfast in the village of Bunratty and took a nap. When I awoke hours later, Mom informed me I’d spoken Irish in my sleep.

My instincts implored me to pay attention. From the moment I stepped foot on Irish soil, I felt I’d come home. This was no shallow sentiment; it was a gut reaction, a reunion with a piece of my soul.

Ireland’s landscape was as gorgeous as its people were gracious, but my response to its beauty seemed greatest in Killarney. There, while bouncing in the back of a jaunting car, I became one with my surroundings. The cool wind caressed my cheeks and whipped my long, blonde hair into a wild mass which would’ve made any banshee proud. Low-hanging, purple clouds harmonized with rippling lakes, and the gentle slope of mountains accompanied them. Flowering bushes, rustling trees, and fertile soil moist with promise completed the symphony. Each note had perfect pitch. Every phrase was pure magic.

When our driver reined in his horse, my parents jumped from the carriage, eager to tour Muckross House. I shared their enthusiasm but was so caught up in nature’s melody I didn’t want the ride to end. Still, history summoned me, so I followed their lead and strode toward the house.

Abruptly, I hesitated. The lake to my right seemed familiar. The adjacent parkland beckoned, but I had to resist its pull. With our jam-packed schedule, an amble through the woods was out of the question.

Years later, I would explore those woods and discover a surprising piece to add to my life’s puzzle. Once again that night, Mom heard me speaking Irish in my sleep.

In my latest release, The Cauldron Stirred, seventeen-year-old Ashling Donoghue has a similar experience. And she not only visits Killarney, but gets to live there. Ah, the magic of fiction!

Amazon https://amzn.com/B072C1CG5D

Barnes & Noble https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-cauldron-s…/1126456384…

The Wild Rose Press https://catalog.thewildrosepress.com/…/5134-the-cauldron-st…

Why I Write Medieval Stories

04 Tuesday Jul 2017

Posted by Judith Sterling in Uncategorized

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British Isles, exploration, Judith Sterling, medieval history, Medieval Monday, medieval romance, Shadow of the Swan, The Novels of Ravenwood, travel

Over the past two months, I’ve introduced you to a number of authors who love writing medieval.  Maybe it’s time I tell you why I do!

Some of the first romances I read as a teen were set in medieval England. I loved the passion of the period—the High Middle Ages (11th – 13th centuries) in particular—and the lure of the British Isles. Ultimately, that love led to a degree in history and a minor in British Studies.

During college and grad school, I studied in England, Scotland, and Sweden. I jumped on every opportunity to explore castles, monasteries, and other medieval buildings throughout Europe. The older the structure, the better! In ruin after ruin, the whispers of the past seduced me. I hear their voices still. With any luck, they add a magical twist to the medieval romances I feel compelled to write and give my readers a world they’ll want to enter again and again.

I hope you’ll check out my medieval romances, The Novels of Ravenwood.  I just turned in the third in the series–Shadow of the Swan–to my editor!

Ice, ice, baby!

15 Wednesday Feb 2017

Posted by Judith Sterling in Uncategorized

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dreams, Flight of the Raven, Iceland, Judith Sterling, medieval, romance, Shadow of the Swan, The Novels of Ravenwood, travel

rykevik-rooftops-1230557-640x480In the summer of 1993, after living in Sweden for six months, I flew back to the States.  My flight had a three-hour layover in Iceland’s Keflavík International Airport, just outside of Reykjavík.  I remained in the airport for the duration, but I couldn’t shake the curious murmur of destiny that tickled my ears.

This place is important.  Not Keflavík or Reykjavík, but farther out.  One day, you must return.

Six years later in Virginia, after I moved in with my husband (then fiancé) Dan, I had a vivid dream.  I drifted with the wind over fjord and field to what seemed a farewell scene.  A woman with long, dark blonde hair stood beside a horse and rider.  The man astride the horse had shoulder-length red hair and a full beard, and I sensed he held a position of importance.

I floated toward the woman’s back and suddenly became her.  The mergence held long enough for me to exchange good-byes with the man.  Then I shifted back out of her and hovered in the air, regaining my modern identity.

Without warning, as though whacked over the head with Thor’s hammer, I became infused with knowledge.  It was the 10th century, and we’d spoken Old Norse.  There’d been a meeting of chieftains, and the red-haired man was setting out on a long journey.  I (as the woman) had used precognitive skills to verify his safety and success.  I knew he cared for me and hoped we’d be reunited soon.  Less clear was our exact location.  I received a strong impression of Iceland, but murmurs beyond it hinted at the Isle of Man, the Hebrides, and a land of promise far to the west.

Then it dawned on me:  the character on horseback was Dan.  The one looked nothing like the other, but their essence was the same.  It didn’t feel like a dream; it resonated as a moment in history, from Dan’s past and mine.

One week later, we snuggled on the couch and watched the film Smilla’s Sense of Snow, part of which takes place in Greenland.

As the movie ended, I sighed.  “I have to go to there someday.”

“Yeah.”  His voice was wistful.  “That’d be cool.  You know where else we should go?  Iceland.  Do you want to?”

Did I?!  By week’s end, we’d booked a five-day excursion departing in mid-February.  His willingness to make the trip in the dead of winter confirmed what I’d come to believe as truth:  I had met my match.

Here was a fellow fan of wind and snow.  Here, too, was the bearded man I’d known and loved in a distant but distinct dreamtime.

26488_1376520863710_7367662_nWe spent a couple of days in Reykjavík and its environs.  Two of the more impressive sights were the Strokkur geyser and the majestic, half-frozen Gullfoss (Golden Falls).  Honorable mention goes to a “Viking restaurant” in Hafnafjöđur.  During our meal, traditionally clad men serenaded us with old Icelandic tunes whose meter and mode conjured visions of longships on the prowl.  The food was delicious…until we tried an Icelandic delicacy called hákarl.  That’s putrefied shark to you and me!  Thanks to a chaser of brennivín, an Icelandic schnapps, we stomached it and lived to tell the tale.

Next, we flew up to the “capital of the north,” Akureyri.  For three days, we braved the elements to cover as much ground as possible.  The snow was deep, and the wind was fierce, which translated to lonely stretches of road where our rental car was the only vehicle around.

There seemed a definite shortage of fellow tourists, but we did come across a group of Icelandic horses.  They squinted and blinked at the icy blasts, and they acknowledged us with quizzical expressions.

 

I could almost hear their thoughts.  Are you two crazy?  Even we would rather be indoors!

 

Still, we carried on, from the old whaling town of Húsavík to the towering lava formations called Dimmuborgir (“Dark Castles”) of Lake Mývatn.  One afternoon as we drove along yet another windswept, deserted road, the clouds parted, allowing a shaft of light to illuminate a giant shape in the distance.

It was a volcanic hill, but it had the aura and majesty of a mountain.  Its relatively flat top was rounded at the edges, which softened its otherwise looming presence high above the snow-covered plateau.  We nicknamed it “Valhalla” because (1) it attracted the only ray of light for miles around, and (2) its brilliance seemed blinding to eyes now accustomed to leaden skies.

Those skies remained our constant companion as we explored numerous craters and other volcanic creations around Mývatn, but whenever “Valhalla” came into view, it shone like a beacon.  We had to laugh.  It seemed preposterous that the sun should ignore every feature of the landscape but one.

That night, in our Akureyri hotel room, a strange sound woke me.  I rolled over in bed and stared at Dan.

He was talking in his sleep, but not in English.  It was a Scandinavian tongue, similar to Icelandic, and I almost understood it.  I felt right on the verge, like when a word or thought is on the tip of your tongue.  Given a slight, indefinable shift, I would’ve comprehended it.

All at once, I knew.  He was speaking Old Norse.

I didn’t wake him, and after a couple of minutes, he stopped.  But his easy pronunciation, fluency, and the authority of his speech echoed in my mind.

I thought of my mom.  Twice before, she heard me speak another language in my sleep:  Irish in Ireland and years later, Welsh in Wales.  For the record, I’ve never learned those languages, just as Dan has never learned a Scandinavian one.

iceland-glacier-lakes-5-1511771-639x960That was 17 years ago this month.  The experience lent the trip a touch of magic.  But all travel has the potential to be magical.  Distant places and different cultures expand our horizons and wake us up in profound ways.  I can’t help thinking of a quote from the movie Dune.  “The sleeper must awaken.”

In The Novels of Ravenwood series, the heroes of Books 1 and 3 are knights who’ve recently returned from the Holy Land.  They experienced the horrors of battle, but also learned to appreciate aspects of the cultural mix they encountered.  I’m still writing the third book, Shadow of the Swan.  But you can check out the first book, Flight of the Raven, to learn how the hero’s time overseas influenced him.  Happy reading!

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