Discover the World of Sara Verrall

to begin ...

About Sara Verrall

A friendly, open-hearted writer who enjoys telling the stories of events that have touched and coloured her life. Sara writes in a way that is accessible and thought-provoking, in equal measures. Her playful observations will bubble off the page, or resonate cheerfully in your ears if you've chosen one of her self-narrated audiobooks.

Beginning with "Dream it, Do it ...Why not?" before moving on to "How to Create a Great B&B" - with a side venture to explain the finer points of "Yanne's Fishing School" - Sara's books are here to entertain and inspire you.

A natural raconteur, Sara has recently released a somewhat controversial title, "No Chemo, No Radio ... No Knife". Her intention in recording and releasing this self-care, health-care journal is to reassure readers that it's not only acceptable but, in fact, essential to follow our own heart choices. Ensuring we cause no harm to others, whilst staying true to ourselves.

Having dealt with that pesky lump in her own, unconventional ways, Sara is now actively working on a new project. Based on her colourful experiences over three consecutive years of journeying in Central America, "Mexico Amiga" promises to be a lighter-hearted collection of tales and insights to enhance this fast-growing collection.

Who-knows-what titles are waiting in her creative soul next...?

Sara Verrall; author, storyteller and budding voice-over artist

Hot News ..!

Sara will be co-hosting a Writers Retreat at her partner's tastefully restored, four hundred year old trader's house, in Marseillan, France, from 18th March 2025.

Take time out to devote yourself to your own writing project, whatever that might be. Come and meet Sara, and Janne Larsson, at "Rue Galilee B&B". Enjoy their legendary hospitality, with warmth, comfort and good food guaranteed for one inspirational week. Accommodation is offered on a Full Board basis for this occasion only, with extra practical sessions relating to websites, audiobooks and videos offered on demand.

Click here to reserve your place. Guests making their reservation before 30th September 2024 will benefit from a surprise incentive, thanks to the Rue Galilee in-house Bar!

Audio Books, narrated by Sara Verrall

Born in Brighton, Sara's clear English accent and pleasant voice are ideal for narrating a variety of projects.

If you are an author and you think Sara's voice would be perfect for your audiobook, please get in touch using the form in the Contact section of this site. Additionally, Sara is excited to have added Voice-Over services to her portfolio in 2024.

*All recording commissions will be produced using studio-quality equipment, suitable for professional audio-editing.

and also ...

Videos starring me!

with more to follow ...

Promoting my books

But most importantly ...

Published Books

One more, for the Seas

Sara also helped Jan re-write his Fishing School book * from Swedish-English, <Swinglish>, to everyday English. It's a great little guide; how to catch big fish whilst sailing across huge oceans ... and gives you a salty taste of adventures at sea.

"How to Create a Great B&B" - Benefitting from her in-depth knowledge of Jan Larsson's success story, having worked and walked beside him since 2019, Sara recounts his tales with warmth and humour.

So many friends and guests think they would like to start their own hospitality venture. This honest account of how Jan, a Swede with no knowledge of French culture, and no French language skills what-so-ever, achieved a rave review in The New York Times might sound too incredible to be true. But he did it ... his way! And he's willing to share some of his best "trade secrets" and practical connections here.

Janne's heart beats truly and strongly in all he has created at "Rue Galilee B&B" and Sara captures that essence in this charming book. Re-writing Jan's website as one of her first assignments, and composing numerous marketing projects for the B&B since then, Sara is the perfect author for this intimate portrayal of hosting life.

Available in both English and French versions, with a German edition to follow very soon.

Titles already released in Sara's collection:

"Dream it, Do it ...Why not?" - telling her true story of her early years living in a small village in the heart of France. Where tractors out-number the residents 2-to-1, Sara leaps with both feet - and two black cats - into a life very different from all she's known in Brighton, England.

With typically British modesty, Sara's under-stated recollections of her great and small achievements are refreshingly honest and gently amusing. As she sums it up: "Moving with no job, no friends, no French language skills, and no spare cash was possibly not my smartest move". But have no fear! Her brave steps, and mis-steps, will maybe inspire you to listen to your own heart and follow your dream, too. Why not?

For more images and insights to the book, and Sara's early years, follow this link to her original website.

* this little book grew out of Janne's much bigger story in his own book "Brave or Stupid"

New Release

A tale of hope, positivity, love and courage ...

"No Chemo, No Radio ... No Knife"

This time Sara travels inwardly, rather than outwardly ... as she shares a journey which will, hopefully, make your heart sing!

"Exactly what is says on the cover"

We do have choices ... there can be another way.

In Sara's words: "I investigated alternatives and made some changes. I invite you to read how that worked out for me."

For more in-depth comments from readers of these published titles, please visit the Reviews section of this website.

If you would like to leave your own review, please send it via the Contacts form or post it directly on the relevant page at Amazon.

Thank you

Short Stories

My recent participation in a residential creative writing course has encouraged me to "play" more in imaginary lands. It's proving to be a lovely, informal process as I don't have my usual concerns, to honour that "every word is true".

Here are my first offerings; I hope you enjoy them...

Why flowers lose their petals in Autumn

Queen Marigold had three daughters. One was pretty, one was clever, and one was mostly average in every way.

The pretty one, Rosa-lee, found a beau – of course – and he loved her dearly. She was sweet, she was pretty, she was charming… and he didn’t care that she didn’t really understand how to put oil in the car, or how the oven worked. She wanted to please, and he forgave her silly mistakes because she was always remorseful in such dainty, girlish ways.

The clever one, Ivy, was So Jealous of her pretty sister. She hated being introduced as “The sister with the sharpest brain”. Yes, she was proud of her academic skills, but she also so wanted to have someone admire her simply because of how she looked. Although, in truth, she didn’t often look particularly charming because a frown frequently clouded her brows.

The average one, Daisy, was mostly oblivious to it all. She lived in her “bubble” of ups and downs, mostly muddling through and not really aware of whether anyone admired her or not.

In time, Rosa-lee and Joe (her beau), announced their desire to marry. They wanted to “bring more delightful, pretty little babies into the World”. Most of the invited wedding guests were so happy and excited, and busied themselves thinking of the perfect gift to give the adorable couple. But Ivy could not find it inside herself to be enthusiastic for her sister. It was just another instance of Rosa-Lee getting what Ivy most wanted.

September 30th, the day of the wedding came, and it seemed like the whole town turned out to spread wishes of joy before the couple. The path before them was strewn with petals, as Marigold and Daisy glided gracefully ahead, shedding their love in shades of vibrant orange and purest white to form a carpet for Rosa-Lee’s delicate feet. Everyone was so enchanted, they didn’t pay Ivy much attention at all. Which was probably best …

Except for one shy guy, called Ash, who lingered behind the crowd, waiting for them all to pass into the flower-bedecked hall to share the sumptuous Wedding Feast. He was awkward and self-conscious as he approached Ivy and asked if he might accompany her into the hall. “Why would you want to sit with me?” she snapped, ungraciously. “Well, I read the article in “Alchemist’s Monthly” about your discovery of a tincture to cure baldness, and I looked you up on Google. I’m amazed at how many remedies you have found in the hills around us, and cannot understand why your work is not more widely publicized. My Dad is delighted that he can throw away that mangey old wig which fooled nobody. I would love to learn more about you.”

Stifling her giggles at the thought of Ash’s Dad and the wig, and blushing profusely at this entirely genuine expression of admiration, Ivy blushed a deep ruby-red. With sparkling eyes and a wide grin on her face, she walked with Ash into the joyous crowd and enjoyed the best Autumn Feast she had even tasted.

And that is why flowers lose their petals in Autumn, and why Ivy’s leaves change from green to glow a radiant, ravishing red.

A modern myth - the tale of G'neshi

There was a man called Guy, in his early twenties who, due to a set of interesting circumstances (which I will save, to narrate another time) had acquired an extra arm on each side of his torso. Coupled with his very large, flappy ears, and a nose which was of extreme, non-human proportions (long and almost tubular) he had earned the nickname “G’neshi” from his pals. They were mostly ignorant of the great Indian god, Ganesha; his story and divine qualities – but one inspired soul had misheard the name and Guy’s nickname had been born.

Fortunately, Guy was a pretty cool dude who accepted the hand (or hands?!) life dealt him, and he chose to focus on more significant issues than his outward appearance. His sense of humour remained intact, despite obvious challenges along his path.

So, anyway, one sunny Spring morning, G’neshi is strolling down Notting Hill High Street, in London, fielding the familiar wise cracks of weekend wits.

“Hey Man, where did you buy that mask?”

“Poundland – they’re going cheap. I’m looking for my Dad; have you seen him?”

“Does he look like you?”

“Nah – he’s blue”.

That usually left them baffled, although sometimes one would manage a reply along the lines of, “Do you want to buy some more Acid?” or “Where can I buy whatever drugs you’re on?”

G’neshi waves his arms, waggles his nose, blesses the Wit for his humour, and carries on about his business.

Hearing chants emanating from the Community Centre, G’neshi smiles to himself as he nears the place where he’s more easily accepted. The Centre is also a Food Bank, and it’s already packed with hungry souls queueing for their share of the donated food. A young Mum is drawing a few scowls, as she struggles to quiet her crying baby, but when the little one sees G’neshi he instantly falls silent.

G’neshi is always deeply touched by the atmosphere of this Centre; a mixture of despair and hope unequally balanced. The provisions never equal the demand, and it is so hard for the volunteers to ask people to “show restraint” when they can see the need for more etched so deeply on those faces. Today there’s an almost-queasy feeling stirring in G’neshi’s heart that he doesn’t recognize. Recalling a stunning, larger-than-life image of his name’ sake’s father, Lord Shiva, in vibrant shades of blue, that decorates one wall of a disused factory on the street where he lives, he closes his eyes and asks, “Great God, what would you do?”

In a flash, a haze of blue smoke fills the building, obscuring everyone’s view for a few moments, whilst scents of Indian spices fill the air. The smoke is dense, but not choking, and it doesn’t make anyone’s eyes sting – not even the baby’s. Where there could have been panic, at this sudden swirling mist, instead a sense of immense calm replaces the hopelessness that is a sad, familiar vibration of this place.

As the mists clear, a feast of unimaginable proportions has appeared on every table! Meats, fish, cheeses, fruit and vegetables jostle for position, whilst jugs of clear water, fresh juices and good wine stand ready. There is enough for everyone, with plenty left over to take home for this evening’s meal, too.

A rather bemused G’neshi stands blinking, as human joy and gratitude explodes around him. “How can such happiness bring a flood of tears to my eyes?” he wonders, as he reaches in his pocket for a clean handkerchief. His bemusement changes to incredulous confusion, however, when he realizes he doesn’t need to reach out for the end of his nose to blow it! Miraculously, his nose has shrunk to an only-slightly-longer-than-average size; one that would not draw unwanted attention on the streets, for sure. Stunned, but delighted, G’neshi then realizes he’s struggling to hear conversations in the room that are usual so clear to him. His reaches up the side of his cheeks, hesitantly, then cannot contain his gasp of wonder. His ears have shrunk, and are closer to his face too! “Wow!”

Walking once more out into the sunlight, his clear blue eyes shining brightly, G’neshi muses to himself, “Perhaps some things in life will be easier now? Thanks “Dad” … although I’m very glad you left my arms in place. This extra pair have been really useful so far!”

Thinking about the girl who has loved him dearly and well, for three years already, G’neshi’s aura shimmers a stronger shade of blue as his feet bear him swiftly homewards.

...and what will the next story be?

I have a few ideas, of course, so please check back next month to see where imagination and fantasy takes me!

If you care to give any feedback on these short stories, written for simple fun and diversion, please use the Comments form to let me know.

Thank you!

Parental Loss

“To lose one parent, Mr. Worthing, may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose both looks like carelessness.” So states one of Oscar Wilde’s characters in his endlessly amusing work, The Importance of Being Earnest.

I’m not usually careless. Generally, I take great care of my “things” – whether they be physical, personal, or animal. However, I’ve lost both parents now, so perhaps I should reflect on the estimable Mr Wilde claim?

I didn’t truly “have” my father after the age of about twelve. And before then his parental presence was questionable. A family-wide weight lifted when he left, as he could be a tricky character to have around the house. In the right mood, with a twinkle in his eyes, he could be great fun. Unfortunately, that right mood wasn’t always easy to predict or control. He did teach me a few values, however, including the words of that rousing Western ballad “Walk tall, walk straight and look the World right in the eye”. But, overall, my mother, brothers and I sighed with relief when he headed off to warmer climes to enjoy the charms of a buxom peroxide-blonde.

My father had a habit of popping up in unexpected places. Usually after an interval of several years; to great dramatic effect. Most notable, was when he reappeared to invite us to his wedding. To a petite, dark, rather shrew-like lady who had most definitely taken the place of the blonde. He was smitten by her intellect and character, and I believe he loved her thoroughly until illness took her early from his life.

I finally lost him physically just before his seventieth birthday. Despite an assortment of attempts over the intervening years, we had never managed to heal the past and connect in any meaningful way in adulthood. He was living with a German lady, in Tenerife, when he died, apparently. I am told that she had abandoned him on the beach, in his wheelchair, after a stormy argument (his temper was always fierce) and he passed away right there. Wrapped in a blanket but suffering from pneumonia and a nasty cough. Obviously, the cough was nastier than anyone had realised …

With my mixture of beliefs, including eternal spirits and life after death, I actually felt that I had my father closer and more available now that he was dead than he’d ever been in life. I even had an unscheduled séance with a psychic when Dad came through and shared some thoughts with us. His choice of language was so incorrect it could only have been my father speaking. The poor host of the séance was shocked and embarrassed; I was surprised but happy to know he was there. I still viewed him as essentially an untrustworthy character, however, so didn’t really reach out to him for spiritual guidance on a day-to-day basis. It was enough that I could ask him to “watch my back” when walking alone in dark places. He was well-suited to that job.

I didn’t lose my Mum for another twenty-plus years. She lived until she was ninety-three and slipped away finally only a few days before Christmas this year just past. We had a mostly regular and sustained relationship for more than sixty years, although as two strong-minded women we would clash occasionally. We had similarities, but many differences too. That could lead to some interesting, supportive conversations, yet at other times we simply did not understand each other at all. But is that not a standard cross-generational thing? Are we supposed to understand our parents and off-spring all the time? Surely that does not allow for evolution, and for lives to change reflecting the times in which they are lived?

Kahlil Gilbran wrote, in The Prophet, “your children are not your children” and “you may give them your love but not your thoughts, for they have their own thoughts”. He wrote many other wise words too; if you do not know of him, I whole-heartedly recommend his book and his messages.

Mum was a fascinating butterfly, who lived a multi-coloured life. I feel she has shared a kaleidoscope of unrelated topics and insights with me – and many others – over the years. She taught me how to make fairy-cakes, but not how to sew. She was endlessly curious, an interested hostess, and she always found ways to be generous, regardless of her monetary resources. Ironically, as life went on, she had more money in retirement that she ever did whilst working. She could indulge her Sagittarian drive to “buy it now” until the times when owning material possessions no longer mattered to her. In her last years she told me her job was to stay alive so she could keep receiving her pensioner’s benefits … and pass on the excess to others who needed it more. Her challenge was to do this without taking away any recipient’s dignity and I think she achieved just that.

Having moved from England to France nine years before my mother died, I had – in some ways – already adapted to not being closely involved in many major and minor parts of family life. We had weekly phone calls, with occasional internet face-to-face connections, but it was my two brothers who were more actively involved in all the practicalities of her final years. I returned to visit, for sure, but the regular telephone chats were our primary way of relating, and I miss them the most now. Believe it or not, just like my father, Mum has reached out to me from her after-life recently. So, “for better or for worse” I can feel the Parental Presence of these two very different people. I am my mother’s daughter and my father’s daughter, with a lifetime of their influences to draw upon, or ignore! I remain my own person, of course; grateful to be aware that they are still sticking around, just in case ...

So, Oscar, there’s no carelessness to apologise for here ~ How about You?

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