The Quiet Life

Not long after I arrived in the UK, with the fatigue of travel weighing heavily on me I started plotting to find myself a house sitting gig. House sitting was attractive for a few reasons:

• it was a cheap accommodation option,
• it would mean I could stay put in one place after months of frenetic travel,
• I could cook for myself and do laundry!
• it meant the opportunity to have a place all to myself (which anyone who has been sharing dorms for months knows is a pretty attractive notion).

Most of all though it was a chance to get some of writing done.

I have loved snatching time to write my blog as I've travelled around, but have found it difficult to focus on bigger projects- such as my fiction. I have scratched out few ideas as I have travelled along but haven't found time to make real progress. I started a story when I was at a home stay in Jordan (maybe July) and then did not get a chance to work on it until my farm stay in Umbria (August) and I have not returned to it until now.

Whenever I get upset at my lack of time to write I immediately remember that ( for possibly the first time in my life) I am the only one who is in charge of how I spend my time, so if I am too busy (with travel) to write it is nobodies fault but my own. Which leads me to another little self lecture -if I have this freedom to choose exactly how I spend my time and I don't prioritise writing, then perhaps I need to question whether it is something that I am really passionate about doing, and if writing is not the thing that I am passionate about doing then what exactly am I passionate about?

At this point in the lecture to myself  I usually re-commit to the writer ambition and vow to get words on paper no matter what- at least until the next distraction.

All of which meant that I was very excited when the universe provided and a lady in Derbyshire contacted me to see if I would come and look after her home and cats for three weeks.

My house sitting home is in the county where Mr Darcy himself had his residence, and my village consists of one lane, a scattering of houses and farms, a church and a bright red postbox. There are no shops and it is 25min walk to the bus stop and the pub.

So I stocked myself up with food, determined on no distractions other than walks and runs in the surrounding countryside and hunkered down to write.

After a few days of pottering about, chatting on Skype, doing laundry and letting my favourite vices get the better of me (watching way too much TV and eating too much) I actually started some writing. I worked on my short story, I wrote a blog and then I worked on my story again; but I also read, walked, cooked, did my embroidery, watched more TV, checked Facebook (a lot) and went slightly stir-crazy.   

I soon began to realise that as much as I enjoyed the treat of having a place all to myself I was missing having company. Decent internet meant that I could start my day having a breakfast Skype chat with family and friends in Australia- a total treat.  In my isolation from the rest of the world (and in an attempt not to become the lady who just talks to her cats) I used my distant loved ones as my company. Which was fantastic, but not really the same as having actual people to hang out with.

Luckily week two saw a real life visitor to my little cottage, and while writing took the back-seat (yet again) having someone to chat to, share walks with and have a pint with at the pub was excellent.

My visitor and I also managed the distraction of a weekend away to Wales, which added to my countries visited list, provided fresh new adventures and more non cat type people to talk to.

The view from Great Orme, Wales

Returning to my solo little cottage life refreshed after the weekend away I am pleased to say that I regained my writing hat relatively quickly and have actually managed to finish some semblance of a first draft of my story (and this blog).

In my first week of house sitting I was reading a biography of Jane Austen; she saw the women around her forced to marry without affection in order to gain financial security and be rewarded by being turned into baby machines, bearing a child a year until their bodies and minds gave out. In her struggles to write, and to live her life true to herself she chose a different path- which left her unmarried, childless, financially unstable, but able to write.

She would perhaps have envied the dilemma's I face when trying to be a writer today.

Finding the right balance to keep me writing, and keep me sane is, I suspect a lifelong quest, but it is a quest that I am pleased to have the chance to be on.  

A day in Darcyshire

for Miss Lydia.

I took my first proper walk in Darcy-shire (or as it is known to non Austen-ites, Derbyshire) today and as with anything Darcy related it did not disappoint.

The sun was out, the sky was blue, the fields were green and I set out on a picturesque morning with no plan but high hopes.

Sure the air was icy, the wind was fierce enough to keep the flags (English and Pirate?) flying and blow my hat off once or twice and the way forward was far from clear, but after a false start or two- where the way was lost (to me) in open paddocks I found a promising path.

I admit that I am still a little disconcerted by the English form of 'footpaths' which consist of an occasional arrow pointing through a hedge and off into the distance through miscellaneous farmland. A girl with any sense of adventure, and no particular plan or map, will have to follow along as best she can, though it may sometimes send her awry.

And a girl with no map may wish she new a landmark or two to help her decide when it is the right moment to give it up and turn back, or should she perhaps take a look around one more corner, over one more hill in her search for home, or palatial manor in need of a Mrs, or at least a still operational pub.

Although I found non of these things as I zigzagged across paddocks looking for path markers I did find mud enough to dirty Elizabeth Bennet's petticoats shockingly, hills enough to make Maryanne Dashwood swoon and Fanny Price delight and plenty of paths for Mr Darcy and Elizabeth to get lost on.

Luckily I had left my petticoats at home and the mud did not worry my hiking boots too much, I managed not to twist my ankle on any hills, which was fortunate as there was no devilishly handsome Willoughby in attendance to carry me dramatically home; and although I had no beau to help me over rickety stiles, I managed well enough on my own.

I did find plenty of produce along the way, free range eggs for a pound, apples for the picking, chickens for the poaching and a field bursting with corn- though I resisted my inner Hobbit and did not pocket any corn or chickens for my dinner.

Cresting a hill I sensed I was re-entering the world of cars and houses and my no-sense suggested I had come full circle and would soon be making use of my own amenities. Alas my sketchy calculations were mistaken and my home was nowhere to be seen. I crossed the road and plunged down another public path, passing an unfriendly dog I quickly climbed a gate, putting it firmly between myself and the dog and persevered until my up-till then handy markers vanished and hunger got the better of me.

Icy wind penetrated my defences as I ate my lunch perched on a damp log, that and the building site in the distance popped the happy Austen bubble I had travelled in all morning and I decided to cut my losses and turn back. I headed for home before the dark clouds could fulfil their promise of rain and the romance of the day wore off completely.

Returning home I balanced a mornings rambling with a hot bath and a few pages of my Jane Austen biography, followed by a hot (second) lunch, embroidery and some BBC Pride and Prejudice couch time.

But much as I enjoyed my immersion in the world of Austen from within the walls of my little Derbyshire cottage, nothing compares to walking with her along the narrow country pathways with the wind in our hair and mud on our boots.

 We will be out again very soon.

Another City, Another Story

I've been travelling for a little while now (4 months and counting), and lately I've had days where I get utterly worn out wandering about in yet another unfamiliar city. It's all noise, anonymous people, dirt, tourist souvenirs, too hot, too cold, blah argh get me out of here and to quote the great Paul Kelly “every fucking city looks the same.”

But on other days I can happily break new ground; and wandering from the library to the park to a gallery and a coffee shop feels just right. I soak up the stories, the grand old buildings, the art and the history of the city and I remember why cities are interesting places to inhabit; because every place has its own story and no city is the same.

On the streets, first impressions:

Venice- an abundance of brilliant surface detail, buildings, waterways, bridges; you could wander happily amongst churches and cafes for days on end and never glimpse a true Venetian, never see beyond the mask the city puts up for the tourists.

Edinburgh -wears its history proudly for all the tourists to see, the Golden Mile is bursting with ghost tours and kilted bagpipers, and everywhere you look there is another historic and stunning castle, kirk yard or blackened monument to photograph.

Dublin- Around Merrion Square the houses are laden with plaques marking past happenings, Schroedinger worked here, Oscar Wilde lived here ect. every other building tells of the cities proud history of literary, scientific and artistic achievement.

Belfast- The plaques and murals on the walls memorialise killings and killers. The history of violence and division can be seen in the walls still standing and the gates that still close every night dividing up the residents of Shankill Road and Fall Street. These are two sides with two distinct stories sharing one city.

As I've wandered about seeing the sights I've come across artists who are also in conversation with the city streets, using them as material, as a stage and a place to find an audience.

Art – taken from the streets: 

This could be a place of historical importance.

Braco Dimitrijevic's wall plaque at Dublin Contemporary 2011 was a great reminder of the blinkers we put on when we only look at a city the way the tourist board wants us to.

Low Road: 

Another artist asking us to look at city streets differently is Ingrid Calame, an American artist whose work I saw at the Fruitmarket Gallery in Edinburgh. In this body of work she has taken tracings directly from the street, and using those nothing marks we walk over every day as the starting point for her work she draws our focus to detail which usually goes unnoticed underfoot.

Path Art: 

Also in Edinburgh I came across h57collective a group of artists and non-artists creating an alternative art space on the trees along Jawbone Walk . This thoroughfare, which is more likely to be used by local students than tourist hordes, places art alongside weekend soccer skirmishes and ultimate Frisbee collisions in the Meadows. The work, exposed to the elements is there to be seen, changed by the weather, added to by a passer by and perhaps even taken home in somebody's pocket.

Inside and Out: 

Dublin graffiti artist Maser's piece Emancipate Yourself is at Dublin Contemporary, but the work exists outside on the streets as well. The artist uses the streets as both platform and inspiration for his message of positivity in a downtrodden city, his bold and colourful text and image based works merging street, pop and fine art.

Outside In and Inside Out: 

Entering the Central Pavillion at the 54th Venice Biennale there is a lot to see, and peering down from the rafters high above the Tinteretto's are dozens of taxidermied pigeons, reminding us of the noisy squalor of Venice that sits alongside the splendid. 

In Venice the pigeons are inside and the naked men are outside. On the very tip of the Sestiere Dorsodoro is a larger than life statue of a naked young boy holding a rat. The Biennale alumnus, who passed away in July this year, Lucian Freud painted a frail and raw portrait titled Naked man with a rat. In stark opposition to this, the boy standing tall in Venice is super human and gleaming, he makes everything around him small and squalid by comparison. Perhaps together, the pigeons, Tinteretto and the two rat artworks are an apt portrait of the city? That mix of Venice's brilliant exterior and masked humanity allowing for a glimpse of the city as it really is. At least that's the story I made up for myself.

To many, street art translates as graffiti, tags, and destruction of property. In my travels of late street art has translated itself to a broad conglomeration of stories about and on the streets I have been visiting. And I have to give my thanks to all the street artists who have enlivened my visits to so many of the worlds great cities.

street art in Istanbul

Doing the impossible thing

Doing impossible things- like recovering from a computer virus, climbing mountains in Scotland during a hurricane, slaying the Jabberwocky and falling in love are all part of the glorious nonsense of life; or so I keep telling myself.

For the first few days of our hiking tour in the Scottish highlands we were treated to the delightful debris of Hurricane Katia, she was past her worst by the time we started out, but according to the news her winds were still at Hurricane strength as she trailed her tail across Ireland and the United Kingdom.

After three months of sunshine and two weeks of fairly mild weather in England I admit to standing miserably at the summit of Ben A'an on the first day. The climb itself was no problem, but once the momentum of moving uphill ceased I struggled to enjoy having gained the summit because I was positively freezing to death. While we ate a hasty lunch, and peered out at the misty 'views' the catch-phrase that would stay with us for the next few days was formed- 'Just imagine what this must look like when it is clear', we said to each other again and again.

There was plenty of mud going up and down, powerful wind gusts to greet us at the top and power outages on the ground. And yet after a pub meal, a whisky, and a warm nights sleep we picked up our damp shoes and our not so fresh socks and did it all over again; and again and again.

There are things that help with achieving impossible tasks:

Tip 1. Knowing very little about the challenges ahead of you helps, not knowing the weather report is essential, I took to scowling at people who tried to tell me about wind speeds and rain predictions.

Tip 2. Reminding yourself that it is no use sitting in a puddle half way down a mountain when you could be sitting in the pub is a very good motivator.

Tip 3. As long as you start in ignorance of the conditions ahead it is quite possible to finish the challenge despite all indicators that what you are doing is positively bonkers.

Tip 4. If you are being laughed at by your B&B hosts as you head out the door for a days local walking slam the door in their faces and run outside into the rain, the fierce wind will give your door slamming great theatrical impact. 

Tip 5. Sticking your fingers in your ears and singing la la la also helps with all sorts of impossibly tricky situations.

Luckily my physical stamina now that I am in a cooler climate is actually quite good- so on the second (very rainy) day despite having a cold, permanently running nose, no hanky, no waterproof pants, sodden boots and a rather damp raincoat the steep assent did not tax me that much. In fact I found myself happily munching my sandwich as I climbed, still managing upward momentum and breathing! Although some of my more lightweight companions found themselves almost blown off the rock I was able to hold my ground.

We could not reach the actual summit on our second day- due to the aforementioned hurricane- but a brave few made it up the steep rocky steps and managed to gain the saddle - where we were treated to more views that would have been great if only we could see them.

The return journey that day- with swollen rivers to cross, paths that were no longer paths but streams, water oozing out of my boots and every bit of me sodden through was a long slog; especially once we got back to sea level and made our way around the swollen Loch which spewed salty debris and tricked me into believing I was closer to home than I really was.

Tip 5. Giggling hysterically helps- preferably with a fellow walker.

Tip 6. Waterproof pants are ugly but they are your friend. In my under prepared walking kit I got drenched through for the first two days until a kind soul lent me her spare waterproof pants.

And then somehow not just the hurricane, but two whole weeks had passed and the impossible was ticked off our to do list. We had walked up to the mist cloaked summit of Ben Nevis, hopped across bogs to the windy Rau Reidh Lighthouse, clambered up to glacial lakes, dipped our toes in the ocean, warmed our bellies with Cullen Skink, clambered up many hills, seen more rainbows than we could tolerate, walked through the never ending beauty of the Isle of Skye, seen lush fairytale green hills sitting high in the clouds and smiled all the way.

 

at the misty summit of Ben Nevis

sun on the way back home- down Ben Nevis

Tip 7. Remember the why:

For me the why is the fact that seeing what is over the next horizon can make my heart sing; and once the idea of  that unknown horizon is in your head you cant not put your boots on and head out there- even if it is into the driving rain. After all, some days the sun does come out, the mist does clear and there it is that view you have been searching for. And it is glorious.

Big love to Walkabout Scotland and all my fellow impossible adventurers who know what it is to climb a mountain in a hurricane and live to tell the tale.

A Bombardment of Stories

Unlike many places I have visited on this trip  England was sketched on my unconscious well before I arrived. It's true to say that my mind map is little confused; having been built from the myriad of stories, authors, characters and poems that I have fed my imagination on over the years, it contains the Hundred Acre Wood, Midsomer, Mansfield Park, Court Green, Hogwarts, Camelot... 

It is a strange experience to arrive in a place for the first and discover so much that is familiar yet wholly new at the same time.

Just catching the bus from the airport into London I was bombarded with reminders that this is the home (to mention a few) of Midsomer Murders, Harry Potter, Ted Hughes, Peter Pan, Jane Austen, Prince William and Bridget Jones.

It would be possible to shape a whole trip to England around your favourite fictions, you could visit all the places used while filming Midsomer Murders, or all sights of significance to Jane Austen and get quite a good taste of the country as a whole. And while I have not had such an orderly approach to my visit I have sought out some of these familiar places; familiar yet never seen off the page or the television.

I visited Sylvia Plaths last home with a friend on a rainy afternoon, and stood before the lavender three story trying to imagine what it must have been like for the poet to live out the last months of her life in this house during one of Londons coldest winters ever.

This sight is marked by a round blue plaque; others like the balcony at Buckingham Palace need no such notices to remind visitors of the stories connected to the place. The Palace swarms with tourists eager to glimpse the site of those newly wedded embraces, and I swarmed happily with them.

Other stories are evoked just wandering about city streets and country lanes.Walking my friends dog in the countryside surrounding a quaint little village in Devon I was in storybook land. I was not sure if I was going to stumble across a dead body or Mr Darcy, but I was sure there was something picturesque, dramatic, gruesome and romantic out  there waiting for me.  And even though in the end I did not fall down the rabbit hole to adventure and nothing more dramatic occured than the dog running off for two minutes other peoples stories were alive to me as I walked.

In Devon I was tempted to make the pilgrimage to Court Green, another one time home of Sylvia Plath and her husband Ted Hughes, but when it came to the choice between this literary landmark and a coastal walk I could not resist the coast.

Seaside walk was the right choice, blue sky and sunshine accompanied us as we walked along cliff edges, over miles of rocky beach, passing seaside cafes, lonely cottages and other dog walkers. At long last we made it to our lunch destination where the half pint and fish and chips were much appreciated.

The weather report had predicted sunshine until 4pm and then showers, and our return journey saw the blue sky replaced by grey. Although the wind on the cliff tops was ferocious the ribbons of grey kept their distance until we were on the last leg of our homeward journey.

Giving my rain coat a workout  unfortunately coincided with finding ourselves without a path and in the middle of a patch of blackberries and brambles. With a darkening sky, thickening rain we were not keen to backtrack, and though clearly off our path we headed into the thorns hoping to rediscover the path, or the village or the car.

Half concerned and half amused at having lost our path we made progress as best we could and after a few scratches on the two legged walkers and the dog getting his tail getting caught up by blackberries multiple times we made it out of the brambles and into another field path. This thankfully led to a small scramble over a barb wire fence and then back onto our actual path.  We were home (not quite dry) but on the right track to a cup of tea in a blustery seaside town and then a beer at home where dinner was nearly cooked. 

Along with beach walks and visits to fondly held fictional friends there have been a few real friends to catch up with as well. Unlike Elizabeth Bennet my real life friends do not eternally walk up country lanes arm in arm with Mr Darcy. There has been  a change or five as the years have gone by- a wedding, a bereavement, a break up,  growing up, new jobs and old jobs; the general surprising wonderment and banality of life rolling on to be caught up with over a drink or two, a meal and a walk in the park.

My England has been gradually re-mapped to include the underground rail network, Gordens Wine Bar, cliff top paths, the V&A, the Thames, warmish ale and Primrose Hill alongside Hogwarts. All these stories bombarding my brain have gradually led me back to thinking about another story: my own and my uncertainty over what that is.

Sure gadding about from place to place gives you the chance to collect plenty of material but lately it feels as though my larger plot is still elusive.

The Lost Boy

The anything is possible non plot-plot line is a little daunting at times, but I continue to remind myself that searching out whatever my story is- is all part of the adventure, and that Peter Pan may have been a lost boy, but he had an awful lot of fun along the way.