Brighton Festival

Yesterday I went to see the indomitable Sheila Hancock at one of the closing events of this year’s Brighton Festival. The talk was entertaining, insightful and inspiring, leaving me with a keen sense of her determined spirit. Sheila is not a victim, nor does she want to be pitied. She is a strong woman with a wry sense of humour and a dogged determination to push against her personal boundaries; travelling alone to far-flung countries such as Thailand to ‘test herself’, despite battling with bouts of debilitating depression. She was interviewed by Kate Mosse author of the best selling novels ‘Labyrinthe’ and ‘Speculchre’, who showed sensitivity and humour.

Both women are positive role models: emanating from ordinary backgrounds and working hard to achieve their goals. Sheila spoke of her Quakerism, her interest in politics, her aspirations to write a novel and of the newly discovered pleasures of solitude. An hour and a half sped by, and I am sure many of us left with a feeling of fire in our bellies.

Gardening for the Soul

Today I have spent a slow, meditative day: mowing the lawn, watering my crop of courgettes on the windowsill and allowing myself to sit and watch the garden without worrying about what needs to be done. I fell asleep in the summerhouse, a book in my hand and woke up to a blackbird grubbing about on the lawn.


I spend week days cheek by jowl with students and work colleagues. I make phone calls, have meetings, write reports. The pace of life feels unnatural sometimes and that’s when I head for the garden and sink my hands into the soil.

I have never been so aware of the garden as I have this year. I have bought salvias and lavender; solomon seal with its bared white teeth. Each day I walk out and see new buds on the apple tree, new shoots pushing their way through the rich, dark soil. The garden is teeming with birds: goldfinch, greenfinch, great tit and robin amongst many others; and a family of wood mice who feast beneath the bird table.

I watch for foxes every night, desperate to see the wanderings of cubs in the murk of the garden. So far, none have arrived but I wait in hope.

Art Objects

I have just returned from a week in Gloucestershire, staying in an eighteenth century stone cottage complete with woodburners, beamed ceilings and panoramic views of the surrounding hills.

Staying in Chedworth prompted me to re-read a collection of witty and thought provoking essays on words, writing and staying sane in a world obsessed with material status by Gloucestershire based writer, Jeanette Winterson, who lives in a small cottage in the woods. Winterson has eschewed the fast pace of London in favour of a slower, more contemplative way of life. She chops wood, cooks slow casseroles and listens to Radio Three with the back door open.

I have read ‘Art Objects – Essays on Ecstasy and Effontery’ again and again; they are a kind of mantra to me when life is too fast, too noisy, too brash. Like Winterson, I love the slow rhythms of life: pottering in the garden, cooking simple meals, reading, listening to music. Without the constant assault on my senses, my mind seems to expand and allows space for ideas to trickle in.

I need room to breathe, to see, to think. To allow my body and mind to slow and really take in life, to live for the moment.

There is much common sense in Winterson’s essays, so many nuggets to take away and nurture when all around is falling apart.

“To see outside of a dead vision is not an optical illusion”

A History Of Monks House, Rodmell

First of all, my apologies for the hiatus. The last few months have been eventful in more ways than one, but generally all for the good. Autumn is here and winter is lurking around the corner; it's chilly and dark in the mornings but my spirits are high - a rare thing for this time of year as I am not a 'winter person'.

It was so exciting to find author’s copies of 'A History of Monks House and Village of Rodmell' on my doormat back in September. The joy was similar to the rush that I had when the proposal for AHOM was accepted back in February 2006.

I love the presentation of the book; particularly the gorgeous frontispiece of St Peter’s Church, Rodmell. There are thirteen illustrations, many reprinted by kind permission of the National Trust Library.

The monograph will be available at Charleston Farmhouse, Lewes Tourist Information Office and hopefully at the beautiful National Trust Properties: Knole and Sissinghurst. Copies can also be ordered from, Cecil Woolf Publishers 1 Mornington Place, London NW1 7RP (Telephone/Fax 020 7387 2394).

I am planning a trip to Charleston soon for the thrill of seeing my own name amongst the many excellent titles on sale there. It really is a dream come true……

Mervyn Peake

On Monday, I found Mervyn Peake’s grave in the quiet confines of St Mary the Virgin, Burpham, W Sx. There were roofers at the top of the 12th C church shouting stories to each other, the sound of hammering ringing round the churchyard.

There were no flowers on the grave but the stone looked pristine (new perhaps?) with stark black lettering, somehow perfect for Peake.

Earlier I had walked outside Peake’s flint cottage, trying to see him as he wandered around the garden, children at his feet, creating the strange and reclusive world of Gormenghast in his head. What an inspiring place Burpham must have been; a village seemingly shrouded in secrecy with its winding, narrow lanes and now and then a glimpse of Arundel castle bearing down from the north.

Why do I make these journeys to see the working spaces of writers past and present? Is this voyeuristic or merely a wish that I will absorb some of their creativity?

All I know is that I get an incredible sense of pleasure seeing the domestic spaces of writers and artists, and that I go home feeling inspired, which can’t be a bad thing, can it?

The Colour

The Colour, Rose Tremain’s novel of sacrifice and greed set in the gold rush of mid-nineteenth century New Zealand, was recommended to me some time ago by a writer friend. Mo is one of those writers who sees the wider canvas of the novel and writes epic stories which cross continents and time. Her first draft sketches out the bare bones of the story, after which she goes back to fill in the detail. I have always sat on the opposite end of the spectrum delighting in the minutiae of detail, drafting and re-drafting at each stage until something is right. This method is conducive to short story writing but it is extremely difficult to sustain with the sheer depth and volume of a novel.

A little while ago I read Susan Hill’s blog entry on the Richard and Judy list and how the chosen novels often tackle ‘meaty’ subjects such as war and are often historical and set in another country. I have done a bit of research on this and found this to be true in many cases. This got me thinking about the novel I was writing which had lots of introspection and internal change but little of the ‘meat’ that Hill advocates.

So, after some thought, I have taken a complete change in direction, (which is scary but exciting) and begun to research a novel loosely based on the life of my great-grandfather, a groom with the 20th Hussars. There’s a mass of research ahead of me, but I am one of those strange people that adores looking up facts and trawling through archives. However, there’s always a time to stop before you get too carried away – especially if it’s two years down the line and you haven’t written a thing. Too much research can be a dangerous thing…..

I have only read a few pages of The Colour but I am hooked already and desperate to know the fate of the Blackstones and the mysterious past that Joseph Blackstone has left behind in England. What is most remarkable thus far is the way in which Tremain reveals character in a few deft strokes:


'Joseph Blackstone lay awake at night. He wondered whether he should dismantle the house and reconstruct it in a different place, lower down in the valley, where it would be sheltered. He dismantled it in his mind.
He rebuilt it in his mind in the lee of a gentle hill. But he said and did nothing.'