Published Books

Molly is a young mother struggling with life in wartime Britain while her husband, Reggie, is overseas in the RAF. She is living in the old family house with her father, George, and five-year-old daughter, Gracie. The house is in Birkenhead across the Mersey River from Liverpool, a major wartime port, which is constantly bombarded by the Luftwaffe. While Gracie suffers terrible nightmares, Molly manages to keep life as normal as possible until Reggie is "missing in action."

This is a story of wartime based on my brother Oliver's letters home from the RAF and my old memories. It is fiction, but a few local Birkenhead characters seem to have crept into the story - they were insistent. Perhaps after so many years they do not want to be completely forgotten. Nor do we want to forget the courage and hard work of those at home. All other characters are fictitious as is the story.

I hope you will find Molly's Story interesting - it is one of so many as the women and older men kept the "home fires burning" while the young men went off to war. This is a story about Molly, George and Gracie as well as Reggie and Reggie's boyhood friend John. After the war John goes out to Northern Rhodesia to farm and we follow him there.

Ollie's crew: Ollie Cook, Twinkle Starr, Lofty Colgrave, Freddie Smith and Jeep Prior

We will always remember them forever young as they have never had the opportunity of joining the parade with the veterans.

The pen and ink drawing on the back cover is the work of Roy V. Eden, an RAF friend of Oliver's.

Baico Publishing
ISBN: 978-1-926596-26-6

Molly's Story is available from the author, Baico Publishing, Nicholas Hoare's Bookshop, Books on Beechwood in Ottawa and the Canadian War Museum in Ottawa. Also at Linghams Bookshop in Heswall, Wirral, United Kingdom.

It was past ten o’clock on a cold, damp November night and the old house groaned with cold as Molly pulled the blanket more closely around her shoulders and shivered. She could see her breath dissolving into the air above her head. The final embers in the fireplace burned red for an instant before dying for good. The pathetic fire in the grate had not really given out any heat; it was just an illusion. She sat in the small sitting room trying to pluck up courage to get up and climb the stairs to bed. Five-year-old Gracie was sound asleep up there under a mound of blankets. The only relief from the blackout was her flickering night light blowing in the draft to make large ominous shadows dance on the wall above her bed.

Molly told herself to count to ten and then to get up. She closed her eyes and listened to the silence. There had not been a raid so far this evening. All was quiet, no planes droned overhead, no sirens broke the silence, perhaps Jerry would stay away and let them sleep in their beds tonight as the cellar was even colder and damper than the house and was home to many toads.

She must have dozed off for a moment because she was suddenly woken by the most tremendous explosion. She saw a fireball in the sky plummeting towards the earth and the outstretched branches of trees. She could hear screams and then she heard Reggie calling her name. She struggled to wake up, pushing back the blanket and standing up on shaky stiff legs, and she had to grab the chair arm to steady herself. She looked around the dark room and listened intently. All was silent. Had she been dreaming? She turned off the lamp beside her chair and crossed to the window. She pulled back the heavy velvet curtains, then the blackout curtain and opened the wooden shutters to look out. The moon was quite bright and she could discern the trees at the end of the lawn. Nothing moved. There was no sign of any fires in the town and docks below, no wail of sirens, no sound at all. It must have been a nightmare but she was positive that it had been Reggie, her husband, calling her. A shiver of fear slid down her back. It could only mean that he was in danger and perhaps he had crashed. Was he already dead? She gave a low moan, which seemed to come right from the very depths of her being. She methodically latched the shutters and pulled the window coverings back in place before groping her way over to the armchair where she sank down into its cold comfort and pulled the blanket around her. She missed Reggie so much. He had been gone for so long now that Gracie hardly remembered him.

A high pitched wail from upstairs galvanized her into motion as she blundered towards the door, grabbing her torch from the recesses of the armchair. Gracie was having her nightmare. She raced up the stairs and into her child’s bedroom. It seemed that the shadows leaping on the wall from the nightlight were menacing the small girl sitting up in bed shivering and wailing in fear. Molly hugged the child tightly and murmured into her soft hair, “It is alright, mummy’s here. It was just a nightmare.”

The child gulped air and shuddered in her mother’s arms. “No, no, the soldiers are coming. I saw them in the pale moonlight coming down the back drive. They were black shadows but their bayonets and teeth shone in the dark.”

Fourteen year old Eric lives at Windsong, an old stone farmhouse, overlooking the Silver River and the Two Moons First Nation's lands where Tom, his best friend, and Rolf, his sister Rachel's fiancé, live. Eric's life revolves around school, horses and his family. With the arrival of spring his alcoholic father returns from a long absence in the city and much to Eric's relief, he is no longer drinking. However, there is another challenge lurking for his father.

Find out what happens when Eric and Tom go off on their horses for a long weekend; when the younger children - Noah, Abbey and Eddie - encounter wolves and smugglers and when journalist Rachel takes to the dangerous water to see how the smugglers operate. Share in Eric's adventures, from the pastoral lands of the reserve to the seedier side of Ottawa.

Baico Publishing
ISBN: 1-894494-41-4

From the author, from the publishers, Baico Publishing, www.canadabooksonline.com and bookstores in Ottawa.

"At 14 Eric was almost six feet tall and skinny. He was skinny because he had suddenly shot up like a weed. It seemed to happen almost overnight. Gem had told him not to worry, as he had always grown in spurts and, with his appetite, he would soon fill out. If anyone should worry it was Gem, as she had to feed his voracious appetite.

It all began one Saturday afternoon just as spring was tentatively appearing. The snow had melted, and the birds were singing at full pitch when they took a break from frantically flying around searching for nesting material. The tips of plants were breaking through the saturated ground. The sounds, smells and a gentle breeze, which thread its way through the slightly opened window, were beckoning him outside.

Eric was in his room doing a school assignment. He stretched, rubbed his eyes hard and flexed his fingers, before he hunched forward again over his keyboard to read what he had written. He changed a word or two, used the spell-check and saved the document. Finally, it was done. He pressed “print”, and the printer obligingly spat out the completed pages. With a sigh of relief, he removed the diskette and switched off his computer. He put the typed pages neatly into a transparent sleeve and put it into his backpack with the diskette, ready to take to school on Monday morning. He stood up, yawned and stretched again before walking over to the window and looking out.

Eric lived in a grey stone farmhouse called Windsong, which stood well above the bank of the Silver River and looked across at the Two Moons First Nation's lands on the far bank. Behind the house were dense woods, and to the east, beyond the barn and paddocks, ploughed fields stretched to the boundary fence. A gravel road ran along the western boundary beside the orchard and vegetable garden. Flower beds and lawns were gently terraced down to the riverbank where there was a small boathouse and dock. A large stone cairn stood in the river marking both ford and boundary.

He could see Gem sitting daydreaming at the weathered wooden picnic table at the side of the house. She was bundled up in his dad's old parka against the cool wind from the river, and was warming her hands around a mug of steaming coffee. Tabby and Sam, the two house-cats, were curled into tight balls on the sun-warmed hood of the truck. Blue, a lean, leggy dog, was scrabbling frantically beneath the table for last year's bones.

Gem looked sad as she sipped the scalding coffee. No doubt she was thinking about his dad. He sighed deeply. He was thankful that Gem loved his dad so much that she put up with his disappearances to the city. The attractions of the taverns had again lured him away some weeks ago from the slumbering countryside. Jean-Paul, Johnny, was an alcoholic.

Eric had been living with Gem and his dad for eight years now. Although he did not dwell on the past, except when Gem was really low like today, he did sometimes think back to the day when he had come to Windsong.

He had been six when his mum had packed up his things in a small bag and bluntly told him that from now on he would be living with his dad in the country.

"You'll like it there," she had said, not looking him in the eye. "He lives on a sort of farm with lots of animals."

He still remembered how scared he had felt. He had hardly known the man who was his dad. His dad had visited them once or twice but the visits had been cut short because the two adults always began to argue and his dad would leave -- banging the door shut behind him and not saying goodbye to his son. His mother would throw something at the closed door and then yell at Eric, although he had done nothing but sit silently watching and listening. Then his mum had a new man who did not like him. He had been mean to Eric when his mum was not around. So he had been glad he was leaving -- but he had been scared.

His mum had given him a hug and told him to be a good boy. Then she had given him a push towards his dad when he came for him. He had never seen her again.

His dad had taken his hand in his big one, and his small bag in the other, and they had gone down in the elevator in an uneasy silence. As his dad had opened the back door into the parking lot, he remembered how the sun was shining and Gem had been standing beside the truck.

"This is Gem. Gem, Eric." They had solemnly shaken hands and, whenever Eric thought back to that day, he remembered how struck he had been by Gem's friendly blue eyes. She had smiled and said, "Hello Eric," and then she had given him a big, warm hug and said, "I hope we'll be friends," and he had nodded in silence.

Then he had noticed the large dog sitting in the back of the truck with a big smile on his face and a large lolling pink tongue. He had given Eric a big wet kiss as soon as he climbed in beside him. He had been too busy stroking Blue to even look back as they drove away to his new home at Windsong."

Have you ever wondered about life in Canada in 1868 - especially in Ottawa? Canada with Governor General Lisgar - 1868 and Lady Adelaide, Prince Arthur and Charlotte is Jennifer Cook's third historical novel for young and older adults. Follow sixteen year old Charlotte Moore as she accompanies Sir John Young, Governor General Lisgar, and his wife Lady Adelaide to Rideau Hall from Ireland. Her twin brother, Ned, a cadet at the Royal Military College, comes later with Prince Arthur, Queen Victoria's favourite son, to continue their military training in the northern dominion. Highlights are the opening of Parliament, horse-racing, shooting the timber slides, rebellion in the Red River Settlement and a Fenian Raid, as well as winter and summer fun in the nation's capital.

Borealis Press 2004
167 pages Paperback
ISBN 0888872275

From the author, www.canadabooksonline.com, from the publishers, Borealis Press, and bookstores in Ottawa. In Ireland from the Carlingford Heritage Centre, Co. Louth (www.carlingfordheritagecentre.com).

Chapter One – Carlingford, Ireland

My story begins on one of those pretty warm summer days, with which we were blessed when we holidayed in Ireland. The sky was bright blue with a few soft clouds lazily floating above Carlingford Lough. The lough was busy with fishing boats, and there were oyster gatherers near the shoreline and, at the northern tip at Grenore, larger vessels were being loaded or unloaded, some with passengers from England.

I had driven in from Nootka, our summer family house situated just outside Carlingford, with my young nieces, Constance and Mabel, in the jaunting car.

Josephine, the donkey, was in a good humour, so we had no trouble trotting into town. We had a list of items to buy for my sister-in-law, thread for her embroidery and some soft flannel to make baby clothes for the next little Moore expected in the autumn. The most important items were new satin ribbons for the girls, as we were invited to take tea at Baillieborough Castle. I had also strict instructions to bring the boys back from the harbour where they loved to mess about in the boats and listen to the "old salts" tell their tales of sea monsters, pirates, mermaids and exotic places far away across the seas.

The boys were my twin brother, Ned, and our two nephews, Ross and Hugh. Ross at seven was already a serious bookworm but Hugh, who was four, was a real little monkey and always getting into trouble.

We managed to do all our errands, although Constance took a long time choosing her ribbon not being able to decide whether old rose pink or apple green would be the most becoming with her new sprigged muslin. Although only five, she would not be hurried, whereas Mabel at two was easily pleased with a bright blue ribbon, which matched her sparkling eyes.

Josephine was not so pleased to be on the move again, as she had been dozing quietly in the shade of a tree in the small square in front of the Haberdashery.

When we arrived down at the harbour, we found people running around and shouting. It turned out that Hugh had disappeared and it was feared that he had fallen into the water at the end of the quay beneath the castle ramparts. Ned was beside himself with anxiety, and the two little girls started to cry, believing their brother had drowned. But Ross was standing on a barrel, calmly looking around the area with his spyglass. "I see him," he cried, pointing excitedly towards the rocks where some of the village lads were searching for gulls' eggs. Sure enough, he had become bored of fishing off the quay and had sneaked away while Ned was affixing another worm on the end of his line. Ned went leaping across the rocks and clambered up to where several older boys were searching without success, as the nesting season was over, and Hugh was doggedly following them. "Hugh," called Ned, "come down at once. We thought you were drowned, you know I told you to stay close to me. I don’t expect your mama will allow you to come fishing again, once she hears what happened."

Hugh was unrepentant, but he scrambled down quickly to Ned, eager to tell him about his climb up the rocks. "It was great fun. The boys were saying that if they found some eggs, they could eat them for their dinner. Sometimes, they catch a gull and roast it on a fire they build on the sand. I think that would be the greatest sport."

"Well, I think that’s quite enough excitement for one morning," I said. "Please gather up your tackle and we will head for home. We are all invited to Baillieborough this afternoon, and Edwina thinks Cousin John has something special to tell us all. She mentioned that Jack has been over several times for discussions with Cousin John. Perhaps he has been given another appointment by Queen Victoria and he wants to tell us about it." Ned helped the little ones into the jaunting cart and took hold of Josephine’s bridle. I decided to walk as well, so we set off along the lower road home. Ned was silent, I could see he was thinking about what I had said. He was to begin his first term at the Royal Military College in September – following in Jack’s footsteps.

"Charlotte, what do you think if Cousin John has asked Jack to accompany him on his next appointment? It could be somewhere in India or Africa. Just imagine that. How I long to travel and see the world far away from all this," and his eyes swept over the lough to the Mountains of Mourne and the steep mountain towering over us. "I love it here, but it is all so familiar, I would love to encounter pirates or fierce horsemen in the Khyber Pass.

"Do you think Jack would take us all?"

Our dreams were interrupted by a loud shriek from Constance as Hugh pulled her hair. I was glad to see Nootka at the end of the lane, and Josephine quickened her step as she neared home.

Touring with Governor General Lisgar

In 2004, I was transported back to 1868 with the publication of my book "Canada with Governor General Lisgar – 1868 and Lady Adelaide, Prince Arthur and Charlotte." It began with the celebration of Lisgar Collegiate’s 160th anniversary reunion in Ottawa, and my crowning glory was to present a copy of the book to the Princess Royal at a luncheon in Toronto. Prince Arthur was her great great great uncle.

Although writing a book is hard work, the promotional book tour is the hardest and most time-consuming part for an author. But it is also an adventure.

My tour was to visit the places in my book and it began in Louis Riel-country in St. Boniface (now part of Winnipeg). It was on January 19, 1870 that Kathleen and her family gathered with the people of the Red River Settlement outside Fort Gary to debate their future after their land was sold by the Hudson Bay Company to the Government of Canada. Large bonfires were built to keep the people warm and, some one hundred and twenty-six years later, I stood shivering in the snow outside the modern St Boniface Cathedral looking at Louis Riel's grave. Between the book store visits, the radio interviews and the school presentations, I always found myself waiting for buses on the windiest corners in Winnipeg.

I then journeyed to Dublin, Ireland, where on a November morning I set out bright and early in a racy Peugeot northwards to Carlingford, the site of the first of my talks.

Carlingford is where my book begins and where my Irish ancestors were the first sovereigns (mayors) of the town.

My hostess for the night was a member of the Heritage Association. She greeted me at the bright yellow front door of her home, in the centre of the ancient town, overlooking Carlingford Lough to the Mourne Mountains. My arrival interrupted a friendly game of bridge for lively conversation with tea and hot apple pie with the Carlingford ladies.

Although my mother used to spend her summers in Carlingford at the family house, this was only my second visit. I was to speak to a learned group of historians from the region, most of whom knew much more local history than me. My talk began with the Moore family, and I felt my ancestors friendly presence in the Heritage Centre, which had been the local protestant church, as the stained glass altar window, various wall plaques and graves in the churchyard were all visible reminders of the family. The family house, Nootka Lodge, is old and crumbling but still occupied.

My presentation and the following discussion were stimulating with such a knowledgeable and interested audience. As a special gift to the Heritage Centre, I brought a copy of Thomas Darcy McGee’s book of poetry, which had been published in New York shortly after his assassination in 1868 in Ottawa. McGee’s roots are also in Carlingford and a monument was unveiled in 1991 by the Irish President and Prime Minister Mulroney.

The next day I drove at speed to Baron Lisgar's town of Baillieborough in County Cavan, where I was to meet forty twelve-year olds from the two local schools in the public library. The speed was due to the urging trucks on my tail on narrow winding roads!

At the public library I was greeted by a delightful group of students – boys and girls dressed smartly in their school uniforms and red cheeked from a brisk walk in the rain. Sir John would have been proud of them as they peppered me with questions after the reading. He had always encouraged education, not only in Ireland but Canada also, and he considered the local model school as "the best in the whole of Ireland." Many of the students had family in Canada so knew where it was on a map, but they were surprised to find out that Governor General Lisgar came from Baillieborough, was buried in the churchyard at the end of the main street, and that Canadian Ambassador Mawhinney had dedicated a plaque on his tomb.

Back in Dublin, after one more presentation to a class of teenage girls from a private school, I was able to relax and enjoy being a tourist in Dublin.

- excerpt from Manor Park Chronicle

This is a historical novel for young adults. It is a story of friendship between three very different families in Iran, England and Switzerland during the 1950s, '60s and '70s. It is set against the backdrop of political, religious, and social change in Iran. Together the families experience a pogrom, exile, a kidnapping, a communist plot, an execution, a revolution and encounter freedom fighters and a spy. However, the story has a happy ending in Canada.

Trafford/Oliver Books of Ottawa 2003
Young Adult
Paperback - 204 pages (June 1, 2003)
ISBN: 1412001307

The book is available on-line through www.canadabooksonline.com, Trafford.com, Amazon.com, and in Ottawa at Coles, Nicholas Hoare, Perfect Books, Books on Beechwood, Collected Works and from the author.
It is also available in Winnipeg, Saskatoon and Vancouver.

PERSECUTION

Tehran, May 1955

"It was dusk. Twelve-year-old Husayn stood perfectly still under the leafy arbour with his eyes closed. All around him, thousands and thousands of small birds were flying in from the desert to roost for the night. The beating of their wings and the clamour of their voices were almost more than he could bear. An occasional soft wing brushed against his face. Feathers, twigs and leaves cascaded lightly down, like a soft rain. He opened his eyes briefly. He felt as if he was in a green tunnel, which was becoming darker and darker, and he was being beaten down, down into a dark vortex. The wings were beating, beating around him, and more and more were brushing against his face, his ears, and through his hair. He felt like screaming -- screaming louder than the noise of the birds, screaming for them to stop. But he didn't. He remained silent. He was in their refuge. He was the intruder. Husayn shut his eyes again and let the sound bombard his whole being. He was there by choice. He didn't have to be there. But, in a way, he wanted to be assaulted by sound because it drowned out the other terrible pain in his mind and heart.

All at once, the whirr of wings ceased, the birdsong reached a crescendo, reminding him of a full orchestra reaching a magnificent climax and then there was complete silence. He opened his eyes. It was quite dark.

Very slowly, so as not to disturb the birds, Husayn crept out to sit on the stone edge of the goldfish pond beneath the huge mulberry tree in the centre of the garden. He was literally shaking with stress and exhaustion. The only light penetrating through the dark was from the house. He felt overwhelmingly thankful that his family was safe within the confines of the high wall, which shut out a hostile world."

This is a fast-paced adventure story for young adults. It is based on the experiences of the author and her family during the Communist takeover in Laos in 1975.

TSAR 1999
Reading level: Ages 9-12
Paperback - 181 pages (1999)
ISBN: 0920661793

Amazon.ca, www.canadabooksonline.com, Amazon.com, Barnes and Noble.com and TSARbooks.com

BACKGROUND

We arrived in Vientiane in 1974 under contract with the Canadian International Development Agency (CIDA). The first year, my children attended the American School until Vientiane fell to the communists and most Americans were evacuated. The second year they went to the International School where they had a varied education as the teachers were young men from the UK and Australia who had interrupted their travels in the Golden Triangle to teach for a year. The school, with approximately 30 students, was pretty relaxed. The students would sneak out on hot afternoons to relax in a local coffee shop or learn the finer points of firing anti-aircraft guns in the paddy field from soldiers not much older than themselves. However, when they didn’t show up for a maths test, the principal cycled out in search of them and from then on the gates were kept locked in the afternoons.

THE BOOK

"A Day of Horror: The night sky was filled with red and orange flames. Rockets shot upwards with a whooshing sound, as if leaping to reach the stars; but the stars were hidden behind thick smoke. The air smelt of gunpowder and burning, and the usually quiet night was filled with the boom boom of explosions and the ratatatat of machine guns.

Harry Porter ran into the house, calling his family to come and see the fireworks. His parents, Meg and Jake, and older sister Anna hurried out to join the group of neighbours standing in the lane. They stood in stunned silence as they watched the centre of their neighbourhood, Saladang, just a five-minute walk away, burn to the ground.

Suddenly a bicycle materialized from out of the smoke and slithered to a stop beside them. It was Nat, Harry’s American friend who lived next door. His face was streaked with soot. Nat leaned over the seat of his bike, coughing and spitting the smoke from his lungs as he tried to catch his breath. It took a few minutes, before he was able to stand up and explain, "someone threw a Molotov cocktail through the police station window and all the explosives stored there blew up."

The fire was the conclusion of the most horrifying day Anna and Harry had ever experienced. They'd been woken very early by Nat. He'd had alarming news. The communist forces had taken over the whole city in the night. The American compound had been seized, and everyone inside was being held prisoner until they could be evacuated. In the meantime, the marines were barricaded inside the USAID offices destroying files.

To begin with, Harry thought Nat was joking. How could it be true? They'd heard nothing. Everything seemed normal. The morning mist hung a few feet from the ground among the houses, and all was quiet and serene. There were the usual morning sounds -- a cock crowing, the swish of water from a rain barrel as someone washed their face and filled a pot to put on a charcoal stove for tea.

"Are you sure?" Harry asked. Nat nodded vigorously, of course he was sure. His Dad was with the CIA and he'd been up all night on his radio.

"Nat joined Harry's family at the table for a second breakfast. Between mouthfuls, he told them his mum was already packing, and his dad said that once the rescue planes came in, probably tomorrow if they were allowed to land, they'd all be flying home to the States.

"Everyone's going?" asked Harry.

"Sure, there'll be just a handful left at the American embassy."

Harry turned to his father, "will we be going home too, Dad?"

"No, Harry," said Jake. "We Canadians are apolitical, and we'll just carry on as usual, the best we can."

"But, Dad, it will be awful if all our friends have gone, and what about school?"

"This was a hard blow for Anna and Harry as there was no more school, although there was a whole month to go before the end of the year. Worst of all, they couldn't even say goodbye to their friends before they were evacuated.

"This day marked the end of the king's reign; and the start of uncertainty and fear under the communists. Many people loyal to the king fled across the Mekong River to Thailand, before they could be arrested for re-education. The borders were closed, food was already in short supply, and suddenly everyone became suspicious of everyone else.

"In the night, Harry was woken by the sound of trucks passing along the unpaved road. Shots were fired, a scream rang out and then, with a grating of gears, the convoy of trucks moved on. The arrests had already begun."

However, Anna, Harry and their parents become involved in the escape across the Mekong of a family, whose father "assisted" the Canadian government. Also, they have to learn, along with their staff and friends, to adjust to the new regime. Meg, Anna and Harry take the two boys across the border and Jake, after freeing the father from prison, arranges the parents' exit.

Through word of mouth and because we had a CIDA maple leaf decal on our gate, we had a steady stream of people begging for help to go to Canada. However, it was all pretty low key, and not as exciting as in my book. It was very sad and at times pretty scary. The Russian Embassy was of particular significance because my children’s school bus driver (when there was still a bus and gas) was arrested and shot for an alleged attack on this embassy. This was a terrible shock, particularly for the children who knew him well.

The story moves to Bangkok, Pattaya and back to Vientiane. The Porters are arrested but Anna manages to escape into the Morning Market where an American marine helps her escape. The marines and Mao skyfighters play a large part in the rest of the story but I will not give anything more away. The marines were a great bunch of young men, living under difficult circumstances, and one hobby they shared with my kids was model making.

Twenty-five years later, I was part of a group of former students who returned to Vientiane for a reunion, and this is part of an article I wrote:

RETURN

"As we landed at Wattay Airport, I was happy to see that it looked the same with lush green undergrowth and banana groves beyond the fence. However, there was no longer the row of sleek fighter aircraft on the perimeter, but the former Air America hangar and offices are still there. There is an attractive new airport building and as we deplaned the ladies were presented with delicate orchid corsages. It was very different from the flight we had left on aboard a veteran Aeroflot plane via Rangoon and Moscow, bursting at the seams with high-spirited Cubans.

Once we had paid US dollars for our visas, our bubbly young guide assembled us for the ten-minute ride into town in an air-conditioned bus. Much was familiar, although there were several elegant new houses and a massive ornate National Cultural Centre. Children in neat blue and white uniforms were hurrying home from school in anticipation of the festivities.

Visibly, Vientiane seemed to have changed very little although the modern Lao Plaza Hotel had a business centre and gym and, when I turned on the TV, I was surprised to find the NBC news and English soccer. The old Lane Xang Hotel on the river, where we’d stayed 26 years ago, looked forlornly dilapidated and the old black bear in the gardens was only a memory.

It was hot, but not too hot for me to venture out to find familiar places. The morning market now consists of three large buildings. The square where the country people had sold fruit and vegetables is now a car park, and the fruit and vegetables stalls are dispersed around the city in small local markets.

The market interior is an Aladdin’s cave of riches – impressive for even the most blasé visitor - with the small stalls overflowing with silks, gold, silver, electrical equipment, CDs and much, much more. The shopkeepers happily calculated prices in Lao Kip, Thai Baht or US Dollars. It was hard to believe that the shelves had been empty the last time I had been there. Another change was the absence of smouldering piles of garbage at street corners and the pitiful mangy dogs searching for food.

One of our main objectives was to visit KM 6, the former American compound and school. Many of the group had lived there as well as attending the school. The American Embassy had cautioned that it was off-limits but our ever-resourceful guide arranged a visit. The samlaws have been replaced by motorized 3-wheel tuk-tuks. We squeezed 12 large foreigners into each of the three tuk-tuks and headed out along a road which had once run between paddy fields but is now a wide avenue under construction and is built-up on either side.

We were not allowed in at the main gate. Instead the tuk-tuks jolted and bumped around the perimeter wall to the back, where the streets were so overgrown it was hard to tell whether we were on Fourth, Fifth or Sixth Streets. We could only see the school from a distance, but we were able to visit the Museum dedicated to the struggle and the memory of former President Kaysone Phomvihane. Kaysone had been Chairman of the Lao People’s Revolutionary Party since the ‘50’s and a comrade of Ho Chi Minh. At the rear of the museum we visited the two houses where Kaysone had lived and worked — one of which had been home to one of our group. Although we viewed Kaysone's bed mat, his many books in Lao, French, English and Russian with great interest, the fact that the dining room table had been Wally’s family table impressed us greatly.

Later I went out in search of our house. The dyke along which the road ran between dense willows from the market was now transformed into a wide road, but I recognized the former orphanage and the school for the blind buildings. The steep slope down from the road into our lane was crumbling dangerously and I held my breath as the tuk-tuk driver inched down. There were more houses and it seemed narrower — we all had the feeling that everything was smaller — and then I saw the house. The gate, that we always kept locked for the safety of our black Labrador, was open and other dogs barked as I walked up the paved driveway. For a moment, I thought the woman who greeted me was our former landlady, but she now lives in the States, and this was her sister. Little had changed except for a verandah, a large TV dish and a basketball hoop. It was the same house where I had spent many sleepless nights listening to the trucks moving through the village picking up people for the re-education camps.

On Saturday evening, we attended the Boun Ouk Phansaa celebrations. This is a large festival in Vientiane, as most of the population (approximately 5 million) now lives in the area. Because there had been several recent bomb attacks, we were frisked by smiling young people in blue uniforms before we could reach the river road. It was thronged with food stalls, games, and noisy concerts, a far cry from ‘75 when western music and dancing were banned, and only traditional music and the lanvong dance allowed. The Wats Xieng Ngeune and Chan were decorated with offerings, flowers and candles. While the tradition of floating lights down the Mekong has lessened, I was happy to see a few bobbing down on the current.

Next morning, we attended the Boun Souang Heua boat races. The boats, with about fifty rowers per boat, belong to different villages and compete two by two. There were other boats closer to shore with bands and singers, including one particularly jolly anti-smoking group.

On Sunday, I went in search of a woman with whom I shared difficult times. Over the years, I often wondered how she and her family were faring, but there was no way to find out. Would I be able to find her after so many years? To my dismay, once off the main road, there were no longer paddy fields with an occasional house but a crowded neighbourhood. I went into a small corner store with my photo of her with my children and showed it to a group of people inside. Their smiles were wide as they pointed across the street.

A young man escorted me down a path and there she was - looking just the same after twenty-four years. She was puzzled at first. After all, I was appearing out of the blue. But once I showed her the photo she remembered me. We hugged and we cried as memories overwhelmed us. She introduced me to her grown sons—five now instead of just two, a daughter-in-law and a granddaughter. It was a miracle that I had come on her one morning off."