(Were it written today, I venture it might be titled Drinking Cider With Rosie Behind Tesco Express). The story harks back to the rural hardship of an English village shortly after the Great War, long before such villages were served by gastropubs, delicatessens, or even motor cars. though herein lies a Steinbeck-esque darkness. Gosh! I had previously read this a gazillion years ago, at a time when even Tarzan didn't seem at all far-fetched.Ī quick shufty through its sepia-hued pages reminded me what a terrific writer Lee was, with indelible characters such as Cabbage Stump Charlie and Harelip Harry.įor me, his sumptuous imagery and poetic prose ( and the fact that this was an autobiographical memoir, which reads like fiction) drew a comparison with Gerald Durrell's My Family and Other Animals. 'Well, I never! Cider With Bloody Rosie.' (You see, I repeated the word 'bloody' yet again, such was my cock-a-hoopedness). 'Cider With Bloody Rosie,' I gasped (um, mine wasn't a version with 'bloody' in the title, just so you know). Then, delightfully, I spied a book that triggered a wave of nostalgia:
There was a reassuring prevalence of Penguin books, resplendent in orange cummerbunds, as I rummaged through a squished cardboard box in my attic.
