To any authors/publishers/ tour companies that are looking for the reviews that I signed up for please know this is very hard to do. I will be stopping reviews temporarily. My husband passed away February 1st and my new normal is a bit scary right now and I am unable to concentrate on a book to do justice to the book and authors. I will still do spotlight posts if you wish it is just the reviews at this time. I apologize for this, but it isn't fair to you if I signed up to do a review and haven't been able to because I can't concentrate on any books. Thank you for your understanding during this difficult time. I appreciate all of you. Kathleen Kelly April 2nd 2024

31 May 2023

Cold Blows the Wind by Catherine Meyrick Blog Tour! @cameyrick1 @cathiedunn @catherinemeyrickhistorical @thecoffeepotbookclub


 #Historical Fiction #Australian Fiction #WomensFiction #BlogTour #TheCoffeePotBookClub

Book Title:  Cold Blows the Wind

Author: Catherine Meyrick

Publication Date: 28 April 2022

Publisher: Courante Publishing

Page Length: 425

Genre: Historical Fiction, Biographical Fiction, Women’s Fiction, Australian Fiction

Hobart Town 1878 – a vibrant town drawing people from every corner of the earth where, with confidence and a flair for storytelling, a person can be whoever he or she wants. Almost.

Ellen Thompson is young, vivacious and unmarried, with a six-month-old baby. Despite her fierce attachment to her family, boisterous and unashamed of their convict origins, Ellen dreams of marriage and disappearing into the ranks of the respectable. Then she meets Harry Woods.

Harry, newly arrived in Hobart Town from Western Australia, has come to help his aging father, ‘the Old Man of the Mountain’ who for more than twenty years has guided climbers on Mount Wellington. Harry sees in Ellen a chance to remake his life.

But, in Hobart Town, the past is never far away, never truly forgotten. When the past collides with Ellen’s dreams, she is forced to confront everything in life a woman fears most.

Based on a period in the lives of the author’s great-great-grandparents, Sarah Ellen Thompson and Henry Watkins Woods, Cold Blows the Wind is not a romance but it is a story of love – a mother’s love for her children, a woman’s love for her family and, those most troublesome loves of all, for the men in her life. It is a story of the enduring strength of the human spirit.

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The old man grabbed a tall wooden staff from beside the door. ‘Come along, Harry, I’ll show you to the top.’

He led the way at a leisurely pace, Harry beside him, answering the visitors’ stream of questions as they walked around the side of the cottage. They had come from Victoria and were enjoying every sight Tasmania had to offer.

The second young woman, fresh-faced and wearing a hat trimmed in a modest pink, asked, ‘How high would you say we are, Mr Woods?’

‘The mountain is four and a half thousand feet.’ The old man chuckled. ‘Not that I’ve measured her myself.’

‘It’s a wonder a hotel hasn’t been built up here,’ the younger climber said. ‘What you need is a proper road to bring people by carriage right to the Springs. You would have visitors in the hundreds all through the year.’

‘Ever been here in winter?’ The old man’s bushy eyebrows joined together as he frowned.

‘No, but with a decent road that wouldn’t be a problem.’

‘Snow two foot deep, cloud covering the mountain. Not much for these hundreds of visitors to see,’ the old man muttered.

The narrow path rose steeply, a thickly wooded gully on one side, a clear running stream on the other. Boulders and occasional logs lay across the path which, despite their skirts, the young women managed to clamber over. They passed a turf-roofed hut of stone some way above the Springs.

‘That’s the icehouse.’ The old man nodded towards the hut. ‘Ice is stored there in winter, packed tight so the swells in Hobart Town can have it in their drinks in summer.’

The young woman in the green beribboned hat caught up with the old man. ‘Can we see the Rocking Stone?’

‘It’s not far out of our way,’ he said.

‘I doubt there’s enough time,’ said the older climber.

‘We’ve come to see Hobart Town at its most beauteous,’ the younger man drawled.

Harry stared at him, judging him a man who had never done a day’s honest labour.

He felt the tug of effort on the muscles at the back of his thighs as the track narrowed and became rockier, the upright gum trees giving way to stunted eucalypts and windswept scrub. An ancient fall of rocks lay across the track, opening out the breathtaking view toward Hobart Town and the river. There was no sound of birdlife, only the rushing of the wind.

The track went higher, the climb harder going. Harry glanced back at the young women—they seemed to be taking it in their stride. Despite their pretty hats, both wore sturdy walking boots.

The old man halted, leaning on his staff. Harry saw the strain in his face, the laboured breathing. In the letter he had sent to Harry last December, he had said he was failing. It was clear it had not been a ploy to get him here. The visitors seemed not to notice the effort it took him.

‘The Ploughed Field,’ the old man announced as if the plain that stretched out before him was all his own work.

A plain of huge rocks heaped one on the other spread out. In places snow was still trapped in the deep crevices between the rocks, in others tufts of stunted grass struggled against the wind. The old man led the way as they skirted the rock field. Up high now and in the open, the chill wind was constant, whistling past them. Harry turned as the young woman in the plainer hat shrieked. She struggled to keep her skirts down as the wind ballooned them around her, giving him a pleasing view of the lace trimming on her drawers. He glanced towards his father who winked back at him.

The final ascent was steep, steeper even than the Fingerpost Track. Boulders of all sizes, grey, rust-coloured, speckled with lichen, covered the summit. Some stood tall, grouped together like sentinels, others were spread out across the plain. Stunted scrub grew between them, prostrate tea-trees, broom-like shrubs in orange and yellow, reds and whites, cushions of low-growing yellow and green shrubs. As if the height was not enough, there was a massive cairn of stones close packed at the top of the mountain, a flag post at its centre. Even the ladies climbed up and sat, staring out at the view. The sky was a clear blue out to the horizon. The light glittered on the river and its white beaches as it opened out to the south where it merged with the sea. To the north, the river wound like a broad silvery thread through rolling hills. And below lay Hobart Town—a delicate model set in the folds at the mountain’s foot.

Harry felt like an eagle in its eyrie—it was no wonder the old man had stayed on here. The troubles of the town, of the whole world, seemed so far away.

Catherine Meyrick is an Australian writer of romantic historical fiction. She lives in Melbourne but grew up in Ballarat, a large regional city steeped in history. Until recently she worked as a customer service librarian at her local library. She has a Master of Arts in history and is also an obsessive genealogist.

When she is not writing, reading and researching, Catherine enjoys gardening, the cinema and music of all sorts from early music and classical to folk and country & western. And, not least, taking photos of the family cat to post on Instagram.






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  1. Thank you very much for hosting Catherine Meyrick today!

    Cathie xo
    The Coffee Pot Book Club



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