Montessori

Our guest blogger today is Teresa Elliot.

I first discovered Montessori when my own children were young. I had been a stop at home Mum and decided it was time to go back to work. I got a Job working in the Montessori and to be honest, it all seemed a bit weird. I asked questions and the Manager gave me some books to read and it suddenly struck me that this was what I was meant to do. This clever woman had summed up everything I had instinctively felt about raising children and my light bulb moment came when I read one of her quotes. “Teach me to teach myself”

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Words of Wisdom from Churchill

- an appeaser is one who feeds a crocodile hoping it will eat him last

- success consists of going from failure to failure without loss of enthusiasm

- a joke is a very serious thing

- The truth is incontrovertible. Malice may attack it, ignorance may deride it, but in the end, there it is.

- The best argument against democracy is a five-minute conversation with the average voter

- Some people regard private enterprise as a predatory tiger to be shot. Others look at it as a cow they can milk. Not enough people see it as a healthy horse pulling a cart

- Attitude is a little thing that makes a big difference

- A fanatic is one who can’t change his mind and who won’t change the subject

- Continuous effort – not strength or intelligence – is the key to unlocking our potential

- A pessimist sees difficulty in every opportunity; an optimist sees the  opportunity in every difficulty

- Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts

- A lie gets half way round the world before the truth has a chance to pull its trousers up

- If you’re going through hell – keep going

Catherine Broughton is a novelist, a poet and an artist. Her books are available on Amazon and Kindle, or can be ordered from most leading book stores and libraries.  They are also available as e-nbooks on this site.  To order your copy of “The Man with Green Fingers,” a best-seller set in Cyprus (fiction) click the link below:-

http://www.amazon.com/The-Man-Green-Fingers-ebook/dp/B008CSACJ6/ref=sr_1_3?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1372753397&sr=1-3&keywords=catherine+broughton

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People in my books: John Manley

John wanted nothing more than to tend his garden up there in the mountains.  He wanted to learn more about mountain plants, to have a small herb garden, to create cascades of colour that would last all year.  He wanted to spend the spring days weeding and digging, the summer days enjoying and the autumn putting it all away again. Even in the winter he took great pleasure from sweeping up dead leaves and tidying away fallen twigs.

He wanted to pass healthy hours out there, then come in for one of Pia’s wholesome meals.  He wanted to listen to her play the piano for a short half hour, perhaps she would sing, and then make their way to bed where he would love her sturdy, fleshy body.

He loved the smell of coffee brewing in the morning, the smell of the grass when he had just cut it, the look of the kitchen when Pia had cleared away after a meal.  He loved her horrendous choice in wallpaper, not because he truly loved it – he didn’t – but because it was her, so her.  Quiet, easy days. Uncomplicated days.  Lazy days of peace. Peace.

When Stella walked back in to his life after all that time, he was horrified. And overjoyed.  He was furious at her for returning, yet took to her with gusto. He knew she would totally destroy the tranquility he had found, but instead of shunning her he let her in.

The only thing was that Pia must never ever know.

“The Man with Green Fingers” is a novel set in Cyprus and a UK best seller.  You can buy it as an e-book on this site or order it from most leading book  stores and libraries. You can also order it, as a paperback or on Kindle here:-

http://www.amazon.com/Man-Green-Fingers-Catherine-Broughton/dp/1475029411/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1372666497&sr=1-3&keywords=catherine+broughton

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People in my books: Pia's Grandmother

Pia’s grandmother had lived in Kelepetria all her life and had never had the slightest wish to even try living somewhere else.  Indeed, it had never occurred to her.  She had been born there in the village, been to school there – what little schooling she had – and had married there.  She was of healthy mountain stock, knew all the plant remedies, all the little paths through the valleys, and everybody for miles in each direction. She was quiet, simple, undemanding, honest.  Her numerous children were all born at home and she was bemused by Pia’s wish to go to the maternity hospital for the delivery.   She was, however, one of the first there when Nico was born, and one of the first Pia turned to, five years later,  when Stella strode in to their lives.

Extract from “The Man with Green Fingers”, a novel set in Cyprus:-

That night the house was strangely silent. John lay on his back in the bed he normally shared with Pia and stared at the ceiling. How strange life is! he mused. Turning his head to one side he could see the pale cradle, outlined against the window. Tomorrow a little baby will lie in there, he thought. My son. I have a son. He fell asleep eventually well after midnight and dreamt about Pia and the baby, comfortable dreams that woke him once, and he smiled quietly in to the darkness. But when he fell asleep again he dreamt of Stella ..… Stella running at the cradle ..… the cradle was lost in Paphos …… Stella had got blood on her legs, mountains, the woods full of bluebells, a miniature tree grown in half a grapefruit shell, and orchids in the shadows. Stella stood by the orchids and waved to him, a small sneaky wave that said “here I am dear”, and somewhere in the background a baby was crying.

http://www.amazon.com/Man-Green-Fingers-Catherine-Broughton/dp/1475029411/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1372342738&sr=1-3&keywords=catherine+broughton

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Sayings that I like

- teachers open the door. You enter by yourself

- no matter how big and bad you are, when a small child hands you a toy phone, you answer it

- I dream of a better world where more chickens can cross the road without having their motives questioned

- even duck tape can’t fix stupid, but it can muffle the sound

- a good book is the cheapest holiday ever

- to err is human. To blame somebody else is strategic

- its not what you gather but what you scatter that shows what kind of life you lead

- in 3 words I can sum up everything I know about life: IT GOES ON

- wow, that’s a nice pair of crocs! said nobody ever

- to live a creative life we must lose our fear of being wrong

- your day will go the way the corners of your mouth turn

- I used to go skinny-dipping; nowadays its chunky-dunking

- I am young at heart; the rest is somewhat older

- a man who wants to lead an orchestra must turn his back to the crowd

- go as far as you can see. When you get there you will see further.

- attitudes are mirrors of the mind: they reflect thinking

- how we think shows in how we act

- if a window of opportunity appears, don’t pull the curtain

- if you command wisely you will be obeyed cheerfully

- leadership is the art of getting someone to do what you want done because he wants to do it

- if opportunity doesn’t knock, build a door

- millions saw the apple fall; only Newton asked why

- if you can’t get rid of the skeleton in your closest, teach it how to dance

- leaders think and talk about the solutions. Followers think and talk about the problems.

- don’t find fault. Find a remedy

Catherine Broughton is an artist and an author. Her books are available on Amazon & Kindle, or can be ordered from most book stores and libraries.  For your copy of one of Catherine Broughton’s novels, set in Spain, click below:-

- See more at: http://www.turquoisemoon.co.uk/blog/sayings-that-i-like/#sthash.3qEr74rc.dpuf

People from my books: Debbie

She was a skinny little thing.  Scrawny.  She never put on weight.  As she grew in to adolescence she remained basically lanky and thin.  She had miles of legs.  When she tried ballet, as all little girls do, she was already taller than most of the others in her class and, although she had a grace of her own, it was nothing like what the teacher tried to coax out of her.

Oddly enough, Jasmina at this same age, was chunky. No, not overweight, just strong and chunky.  The French call it “bien plante” (well planted).  Mark you, Jasmina had horses and that made her immensely fit, so one can’t compare.  Odd, when you think what a muscle-maniac Hussein was.  I wonder if he ever thinks about Debbie and the children ?  And, if he does, would he be pleased that Jasmina has that same muscular physique …?

Extract from “A Call from France”:-

When we watched Debbie whizzing down the pistes, all her cares forgotten, we knew we had made the right decision. She skied well, with an instinctive elegance. She was cautious but fun-loving, and both she and Max braved the black pistes with no bother, invariably meeting us at the bottom. We rapidly gave names, as I daresay most families do, to the meeting points.

“We’ll meet for hot chocolate at Grizzly Bear café” one of us would announce, or perhaps “when we get to the end of Red Apple piste (named after Bernie ’s cheeks) we’ll go for lunch.”

Two weeks tripped by on the snowy slopes. We were both extremely conscious of Debbie and we did everything we could to make sure she really enjoyed it. Max had to pretend to be over sixteen (easy enough when you’re tall) in order to get in to the disco with Debs every night. We didn’t dare count how much we were spending, but they returned in the small wee hours full of fun, and Max told me there was nothing of any note to report. Debbie danced a lot, he told me, she chatted a lot.

“She can be SO EMBARRASSING!” he declared.

Girls are, I replied.

Ironically the café we skied past on our way to the first lift had to be called …. wait for it – Costa. It couldn’t possibly have been “The Coffee Shop” or “Café des Pistes” or something like that. No, it had to be called Costa. I don’t know if Debbie noticed – I certainly didn’t draw her attention to it.

A couple of times during day time Debbie and Max met friends they had made at the disco, but of course most people were there only the one week.

“Does Debs show any interest in the other boys?” I asked Max .

“Yes – in all of them!”

“Does she dance with them? Is she having fun?”

“Oh yes! She dances a lot. She’s quite good at it. She dances with all the boys. She’s having a great time.”

“And you, Max ?” I asked, looking up at his young face with just the first hints of a bit of hair on his chin, “are you having a nice time too?”

“Brilliant!” he grinned at me.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said, “but Debs has forgotten about Costa. She’s looking forward to going to college in Brighton next year. She told me so.”

Sometimes he was so wise for his tender years. He was certainly reassuring. I looked at him. Dressed almost entirely in black he still had the figure of a boy and I suspected he was extremely pleased at being able to go to the disco because of Debbie …

order from Amazon, Kindle or paperback:-

http://www.amazon.com/Call-France-Catherine-Broughton/dp/1475116659/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1372262616&sr=1-1&keywords=catherine+broughton

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Illustrations for my books

Extract from “A Call from France” by Catherine Broughton

I was happier at Les Cypres.

I was physically, if not mentally, considerably less isolated. It was only once we’d moved in that I realized just how much the distance between Tulips and everything else had added to my work load, just in sheer driving time. I hadn’t even been able to post a letter or buy a stick of bread without getting out the car and, worse, any form of entertainment or relaxation – beaches, restaurants, cinemas – were all miles away.

Les Cypres offered us more and at closer proximity. As the months flit by we tried a variety of things from jazz sessions to yoga, from archery to Amnesty International. It may be that we asked too much of life, but we were never able to become immersed in any way and remained permanently sitting at the edge. One of the things we got involved in was the village committee for saving the patrimoine – the local heritage – and we attended several village meetings where the restoration of an ancient bread oven was discussed. I suppose the problem was that it was not our country, not our village – hey, not even our language! – and we found it difficult to take any realistic interest in renovating a bread oven, not least because we had an ancient bread oven of our own.

I can’t say I actively enjoyed the proximity of the village shops or the supermarket in Arabor, but I was aware it was an advantage. St Sylvain , the village, offered the basic essentials, despite being closed half the time, and Arabor was at least a town with real live people around, if not very many. It’s funny how you just don’t see French people in the streets in a French town, the way you do in England.

On a Sunday morning, particularly in winter, Euan and I went to the supermarket in Bourcefranc, some five minutes in the car. Afterwards we walked on the beach. I loved looking out over the sea to the island of Oleron opposite, seeing the boats bobbing about in the estuary and the cars passing by over the bridge.

There is something undeniably exhilarating about walking along a beach, even in the winter when that wind whipped in off the Atlantic, searing like a knife through our cagoules and thrashing my hair into a tangled nest. We always parked at the eastern end of the beach, at that time little more than a dirt road and utterly stinking with seaweed and shell fish, and walked directly along the shore line as far as the little sailing club at the far end. We walked briskly, breathing deeply, trying to counteract the stress and strains of the punitive week we had terminated. Big Harry always came too and would charge along that beach barking and leaping through the waves. We still walk on that beach, quite regularly. Sometimes we see Big Harry’s shadow, his ghost, still leaping joyfully in the sand. Bernie joined the little sailing club in the summer and spent many a sunny day out in the estuary, sailing sometimes beyond the bridge and out in to the huge ocean.

Our move to Les Cypres coincided with my little estate agency fizzling out. That is the only way to describe it: it just fizzled out. That last summer at Tulips I had made many sales and had had clients almost every day; by the following spring it was over. At that time the expression “burn out” hadn’t been coined but, looking back on it now, I realize I was all burnt out. Competition was greater, of course, for the proximity of civilization also meant not only proximity of other agents but sparsity of properties available: the abandoned little farmhouses simply didn’t exist, people moved house less frequently, abandoned their houses never, and there was generally little of any interest on the market. My great strength as an agent had been that I was willing and able to drive around all the isolated little hamlets in the countryside, spotting the potential for British clients in the huge old beams and stone fireplaces, which at that time were the very things the French were abandoning. I had seen how to play the market. But it wasn’t just that: somehow the energy and enthusiasm had gone. The need to earn money kept my agency limping along for a while, perhaps six months.

“I’m not doing this any more,” I said aloud as I drove home one day, “I’ve finished.”

And that was it: I finished.

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