Welcome to Fernhallow

Down the lane from Fiddler’s Green – a little hamlet that smells of honey and self-importance – there’s a village that never quite appears on maps. Doesn’t need to. If you belong here, you’ll find it.

Nestled beside a lake so clear you can see the clouds lying down for a rest in it, the village curves around the water like it’s cradling something sacred. Country houses with thatched roofs and whitewash walls. Gardens filled with foxgloves and bad decisions. Washing lines that carry secrets as well as socks. And laughter. Always laughter – the good kind, the unguarded kind. The kind that makes you forget what century you’re in.

This is where they live. My characters.

Not in the pages – God no. Pages are for people who don’t know how to walk in.

They live here.