On Retreat - Arvon - The Clockhouse - Day 1

During the day, you can only hear birds. At night it's completely silent and black.

It's very strange to actually be here, after months of mulling over how I would use the time. I awkwardly set up my desk, neatly pushing pens into line, notepads to the left, then just stepped away from it all, scared.

Yesterday, fear was allowed. We arrived around 4pm, greeted with cake, and sat together in the library/lounge talking about our projects, enjoying being surrounded by shiny, new books. Dinner was a cheese board followed by fresh bread and soups from a local Chef. I called my husband, delighted at the prospect of an evening of wine, face mask and a long bath. He chided me, 'You know this isn't a holiday right?'

Yes, but I'd forgotten. It's unnatural to find yourself living with a group of strangers in a magical setting and push against the urge to talk and socialise, and crowd together.

After dinner I managed an hour or so of writing in my Study, atmospheric playlist filling the room, fussing with the various lamps for the perfect amount of light. But I was nursing an over-excited headache, a few hours of travel and generally overwhelmed. So I forgave myself and went to sleep, promising that it would all start tomorrow.

So far, so good. I've flung the windows open; the hills beyond the forest are almost lost in morning mist. I've prepared a list of goals, broken up around meals. At 10am I'll head down to the kitchen, and sit down with my friend Sheena, over a gargantuan pot of coffee and breakfast. We're going to share our plans for the day, and roll out a few writing exercises, like stretching before the run. I loosely intend to write this blog and fresh writing in the morning, research and edit in the afternoon, and pick up the writing again in the evening, into the early hours if possible. That seems to be the time my mind is the most relaxed and open, letting the gold words fall out.

Perhaps tonight we will gather around the wood fire and share our work with flushed cheeks. Or perhaps, like last night, we will eagerly consume our dinner and debate the merits of a writing group, our favourite authors, and the differences between poetry and prose.

Laura, a novelist herself, certainly agrees with me that the novel is a beast, a looming monster. We both despair at how to approach taming the thing, but at the same time know there's nothing else we could be doing, nothing else which would cook up the same bizarrely delighful mingling of fulfilment and challenge.

Here's a few pictures: