'o the Bright Edge of the World blew a cold breath into my heart. The landscape – its wildness and its history and its beauty – intrigued me; as I read I felt the relentless pull that urged the Colonel and his men northwards into unexplored territory. Gladly I went with them, drawn on by a combination of curiosity, fear and dread, turning the pages faster as they raced against weather, starvation and harsh conditions. Eager, like Sophie, to see such grand wilderness.Read More
'We're novelists, not historians - we're looking for things that historians can't tell us. Novelists step in and fill the blanks left by history. That's what makes it interesting.'Read More
'Are you the writer? You look like a writer.'
The miller was a big guy, solid and broad, with a dusty workboots and shoulders that seemed made to heft sacks of flour.
'Yep,' I said. 'That's me.'
He grinned and introduced himself as Corry, then unlocked and swung open a set of large gates. Beyond them the Thames languidly flowed, its surface calm and greenish, brushed by willows. A creamy-pink building crouched on the bank- Mapledurham Mill, a 17th century water mill and the last working grist mill on the River Thames.