June's blog party

I’ve been feeling scattered for the last week or two and busy with long To Do lists every day and had decided not to join in the blog-link party this month. Then I started to read and enjoy everyone’s contributions and decided that I wanted to do my piece after all. So here it is.

My garden

We were delighted a few weeks ago to find a wren nesting in a reel of cable in our garden shed. (I say ‘our’ but the shed is mostly taken up with Frog’s stuff which I have to keep pushing back so as to create a gardening ‘corner’.)

A wren's nest (after fledging) in a reel of cable in our garden shed

The parent/s seemed unconcerned by our presence, flying in and out past us to feed the ever-gaping, peeping, yellow mouths. I didn’t photograph these as I didn’t want to scare any of the family, old or young.

When the chicks started to fledge we left a window open as we didn’t think they’d find the crack in the top corner of the roof through which the adults squeezed (when the door was shut). We think they all got away all right.

Flowers

Here – for Trish - is one of the wildflowers listed in the previous post.

Wood sage

It’s called wood sage, and although related to the culinary sage (both of them being part of the nettle family) has no particular scent to the leaves. The gardener and writer Vita Sackville-West considered the plant fit for the garden and I agree - it's beautiful and robust, flowers for several months and doesn't take over. It’s common in the hedgerows round here and I saw this patch sticking out of a bank a few days ago.

Insect

I didn’t want to photograph this fungus, seen on a recent walk,  as it gives me the creeps but when I saw a dung fly on it I thought that it would be just the thing for the ‘insect’ section of this post. It’s called stinkhorn because of its disgusting smell (like raw meat), Latin name (for obvious reasons) Phallus impudicus. Luckily this one has fallen over. You don’t usually see it as it grows deep in woods. Here it’s in dense shade next to our nearby canal.

Stinkhorn and dung fly

Something wild

Between the canal and a small parking area on the same walk we saw these wild birds, going about their business, completely unconcerned by human presence.

A mother duck and her ducklings – I love the way the ducklings pick up their feet as they walk  . . .

. . .  and this moorhen, with swans and cygnets behind.

Are the birds always there or have they got used to having the place to themselves during Lockdown?

Sunset

We don’t see sunset (or sunrise) from our garden in the summer as there are too many leaves. I took this picture of sun-glow however late one evening around the solstice as I listened to the birds’ final songs.

Solstice sun-glow

There was a new song in the chorus and for some reason I had an inkling that it was a nightingale, which I’d never heard before. According to my bird book, the nightingale nests in ‘thick cover of brambles and nettles, in or near broad-leaved woodland or scrub’, which just about describes our overgrown garden as is it at the moment. I’ve now listened to the song on our CD of birdsong so will be prepared if I hear it again in the garden.

My choice

Having said in the previous post that we don’t do ruins in this country, we came across some more on a new cross-country walk last week.

It was a beautiful spot and reminded me of the idealised visions of rural England that you see in Victorian watercolours - such as those by Helen Allingham.

Hill Farm, Symondsbury, Dorset, by Helen Allingham (1848-1926)

A wet walk, some ruins and another list

We intended to go for a walk on Dartmoor. We hadn’t been there for many months, we hoped that there would be fewer people around than on our other walks recently – by the coast, along canals – and I wanted to take some wild pictures for June’s Scavenger Hunt. Then the weather broke, I came down with a migraine and my walking boots split, leaving me with only pink wellies to keep my feet dry - not at all suitable for Serious Walking.

Split boots

Unsuitable pink wellies

With a forecast of thunderstorms we decided it would be foolish to head for the moors where there’s no shelter and you’re far from help if anything happens (and most likely out of mobile phone range) but we were both becoming irritable and even the simplest of conversations (how much to turn a tap, why Frog was holding up his keys) was descending into argument. So we decided instead to head for the coast again, but a slightly different walk from usual.

My migraine had at last lifted after coming and going for a week. As we drove into the tiny car park in the pretty hamlet, saved from too many tourists by the fact that it has no shop, pub or café, there was only one other car, and as we walked down the wooded valley the only people we met were two women joggers who seemed like locals. It wasn’t actually raining but the leaves dripped and the air smelt deliciously green. For some reason I was reminded of Greece. Perhaps it was the combination of hot ground and moisture.

We came out on to a scrubby hillside covered in wildflowers and bees, and sat down to eat our picnic – egg sandwiches made with eggs from a neighbour’s rescue chickens (saved from the battery farm and an early death and now living the life of Riley) and homemade hummus (a Lockdown accomplishment). There was so much low cloud and drizzle that we couldn’t see the sea only half a mile or so below us.

We reached the coast path and the prettiest part of the walk was over. To the left was a pig farm and scrawny fields, to the right (separating us from the sea) thorn trees and brambles. At least these meant that Ellie couldn’t plunge over the cliff so we didn’t have to keep her on a lead. It started to rain in earnest and I put on my hat and waterproof trousers.

In spite of the weather – or perhaps because of it – there were wildflowers everywhere but I didn’t try and spot them with my usual enthusiasm. I was too busy trying to keep the wind and rain out of my eyes. Nor did I want to photograph them and get my camera wet. Until, that is, we saw these magnificent thistles*. For some reason I thought of the Queen’s crown and its gaudy jewels.

Crown jewels?

A brave bee, feasting on a thistle in spite of the weather

Out in the open again: the greyness in the background is a mixture of sea and sky

Back along the lane the rain became torrential and Ellie kept looking up at us as if to say, ‘Are you sure we should be out in this?’ A couple of weeks ago, with the weather scorching and Ellie finding it almost too hot to walk, we’d taken her to the dog-groomer and had all her thick fur cut off. Now, when I patted her new short dense coat, she squelched like a sponge. Frog’s trousers were sticking to his legs and I could feel drips working their way down the inside of my clothes.

Ellie a week or so ago with her new haircut. I think it makes her look sweeter and more vulnerable. Frog thinks it shows up her true unscrupulous nature.

In the hamlet again, we passed this ruin which always intrigues me. With its elegant pillars, it looks like the gatehouse to a stately home, so what’s it doing surrounded by farms? And anyway we don’t do ruins in the UK, except deliberately (usually churches and abbeys). Everything is turned into something. We need the space.

The forgotten building we saw on our walk, next to a cottage and a barn but with classical lines and elegant columns

A ruined church on Burrow Mump, a conical hill in the middle of the Somerset Levels

Unlike the Greek island we visit where abandoned buildings can be seen all over the place, especially inland. I’m not an expert but I think this is because tourism has taken over from farming in the islands and tourist accommodation is usually on the coast.  Also, it’s probably cheaper to build from scratch than turn an ancient building into something with modern facilities like air-con and wi-fi. Perhaps it’s also a sign of depopulation - people moving to the cities or abroad in order to make a living. Sad.

Greek island houses, in ruins

A ruined Greek windmill

Back in the car, however, we thanked heaven for civilisation and steamed gently all the way home.

Wildflowers seen
(or at least the ones I noticed, through the wind and rain - there were probably many others)

Bacon and eggs (Birdsfoot-trefoil)

Blackberry

Buttercup

Cat’s ear

Cow parsley

Dog rose

Elder

Foxglove

Hedge bedstraw

Herb Robert

Honeysuckle

Knapweed

Ox-eye daisy

Red campion

Scentless mayweed

Thistle*

Sweetbriar

Wild carrot

Wood sage

Yarrow


*When later checking something in one of my books (Richard Mabey’s Flora Britannica) I came across a picture of the Musk Thistle and recognised that it was the one I saw on this walk. It has a slightly musky smell apparently and grows on chalky soil, which most of Devon doesn’t have, but this area does - which means I don't normally see it which explains why it jumped out at me.

My creative life (or something like that) and a list

It’s my belief that our brains don’t deteriorate as we age: they change. We move away from the factual towards the imaginative – towards stories, shapes and colours rather than words and ideas. We forget things like the days of the week or people’s names not because we’ve become forgetful but because they’re not important to us any more. Well, that’s my excuse.

And here’s the story of my brain’s development.

I went to a girls’ grammar school where the focus was firmly on the academic and passing exams. Then, after university and a lot of travelling and wrong turnings, I settled in Devon with Frog and started work as a book copy-editor and proofreader, occupations firmly rooted in the left brain*.

In my late thirties I branched into writing non-fiction books and articles. As a result of working in the publishing industry, I knew the gaps in the market, and as a result of migraines (vomiting and acute right-headed pain) that had begun in my twenties and my attempts to find a cure for them, I had become something of an expert on complementary health. These two factors combined to get me published.

In my fifties, with our financial situation easier, I didn’t have to work quite so hard at the editing and proofreading and I became interested in creative writing. It’s what I’d always wanted to do, but universities didn’t cover anything like that when I was a student so I’d not given the ambition any credence. I attended an evening class and started a novel. The process took me over however and I sat up writing for nights on end, eventually becoming ill and having to stop halfway through.

A few years later, I discovered the wonderful Roselle Angwin and followed one of her courses, meeting monthly for six months with her and a group of other would-be novel-writers. The result was a children’s novel. Or at least it was intended to be a children’s novel. It was in fact probably an adult novel with an eleven-year-old heroine. To date, it’s not found a publisher and actually I don’t think it’s very good. (It’s also hampered by the heroine and a ten-year-old friend running away on a canal-boat with two adults not related to them, which would probably not be allowed in a book these days.)

I didn’t find my editing work conducive to creativity. In fact it stifled it. So I took a part-time job in a local bookshop and at the same time signed up for another novel-writing course with Roselle, online this time. She kick-started the process by getting me to list all the mantras of my childhood, whether spoken or unspoken, and then choose one to write about. The one I chose (to disprove) was ‘Happiness is selfish’.

A few years later and a few drafts in, I sent the proto-novel to a literary consultancy** (Cornerstones) who loved it and made lots of helpful suggestions for ways it could be improved.

I then made a detour and edited a local villages magazine as I thought it was time I did something for the community. I had fun developing the magazine but after three years realised that to go any further would mean it becoming a full-time occupation and I didn’t want that. So I returned to the novel and, with the suggestions from Cornerstones in mind, started to redraft it yet again. The result was The Banker’s Niece, serialised on this blog as I rewrote it (see right).

At the beginning of this year I sent The Banker's Niece to another literary consultancy, The Literary Consultancy, whose Reader didn’t like it at all and – dare I say it – didn’t even appear to have read it properly. I slumped. I lost all belief in myself as a writer. I became depressed. Six weeks later, with the bad feelings not going away, I contacted TLC and explained what had happened, and they bless them (thank you, Joe) diagnosed a mismatch between Reader and novel and offered a second report free of charge.

I haven’t yet had that report back and I’ve no idea what it will say and I don’t even know if I want to carry on with the novel and rewrite it yet again, but my spirits have lifted. TLC’s first report is no longer the last word. There is hope. I’ve unlocked. My creative journey continues.

With the unlocking, a list of what I’ve learnt so far about creative writing, and novels in particular, has been forming in my mind. I thought I’d share it with you, not least because that way I’ll have to stick to it.

And, by the way, the migraines are getting better.

The list

If you want to start a new novel, state your intention to the universe and your subconscious and then step back and let them get on with it. Stressing and straining are counter-productive, and willpower is not what’s needed at this stage. Instead listen to the whispers in the corners of your mind and catch the images that flash across your mind’s eye. Soon they will gather momentum.

Remember to rest. Time spent not writing is as important as time spent writing. A wander round the garden, or in my case ten minutes flat on my back on the bed with my eyes closed, can be more productive than hours staring at a computer screen. Take days off, of course.

Have a routine for writing but don’t be too rigid about it. If you wake in the middle of the night flooded with ideas, write them in a notebook and then go back to sleep. Don’t get up and start working at the computer. If in the day the writing comes to a halt, stop. Either it’s finished, or you need time to refill the word-tank.

Keep notebooks everywhere – by the bed, in the bathroom, in the kitchen, in the car, in front of the television, in your bag. Ideas can strike at any time, any place.

Enjoy the journey. Don't be in too much of a hurry to finish a project. If a side-path presents itself, follow it. Who knows where you'll end up.

Don’t feel guilty about everything you’re not doing. (In my case this means cleaning the house, having a tidy garden, being sociable, seeing family, looking immaculate, doing things for the community.) Your writing is your gift to the world. Take it seriously. Put it first.

The East Devon coast two weeks ago

*You probably know all about right and left brain stuff but in case you don't - the left brain is the intellectual side and the right brain is the intuitive, sensory side. Women have more connections than men between the two sides which is why they see things more holistically.

**In the past publishers did everything for an author. Now you have to pay a literary consultancy for editorial advice and then an agent for selling your book to a publisher, and then you have to do all the publicity yourself.