I’ve never been away on my own and I’ve never been away from the children for more than 2 nights but, 3 months ago in a moment of pure indulgence I booked myself on a writing retreat in Scotland, run by the tutor from a writing group I used to attend. 5 nights and 6 days of someone preparing and cooking all my food, a bed to myself and fingers crossed maybe a little bit of writing set in beautiful countryside – the week before I finally began to realise what a brilliant idea it had been. Early on Monday morning (5am early – this was definitely dedication) me and 2 zoom writing friends set off on the 8 hour journey. Having seen each other for two hours most Tuesdays on Zoom we felt like we knew each other – only time would tell whether our impressions of each other on Zoom were true in real life. The journey passed in a flash, non stop chatting and laughs as if we’d known each other all our lives.
We parked and walked up the drive to what appeared to be the back door. Letting ourselves in we were greeted by one of the writers. Looking around I expected our host to appear any minute but we were informed she was out on a dog walk around the block. The three of us were then informed by our greeter about her writing genre and then she enquired as to what our genres were. We looked around the room and at each other – none of us spoke. I stood still and viewed the writing room we were in – laptops on the table, shelves of books, plants everywhere and, I glanced into the kitchen where every surface had things on it and wondered whether this retreat had been such a brilliant idea after all. Could I spend 5 nights and 6 days with ‘proper writers’ in a space that my minor ocd tendencies might struggle to relax in? Due to the long journey and my dodgy back we went for a walk to see if we could find the others and to contemplate what our answer about writing genres might be.
Two minutes down the road was a bridge across the river and it was here that we located our host. We hugged and breathed a sigh of relief when we weren’t quizzed about our writing genres but asked about our journey, how we were and we all discussed how good it was to see each other face to face. Returning to the retreat we were served a cream tea and taken to check into our lodgings – me and a friend from Deal were in the old station house and 2 other writers were staying in an actual train carriage in the garden. We weren’t jealous of them at all.
That evening we crossed back over the road and sat chatting and laughing over cheesy chickpeas followed by chocolate croissant and butter pudding. I sat quietly wondering and worrying if anyone else was going to quiz me about my writing genre and whether I had an agent and how many books I’d written. It never happened, not as part of an interrogation, at times it naturally became part of our conversations across the week although I’m still not sure on my ‘what genre is your book?’ answer.
The following morning after a walk along the old railway line to the river and a breakfast of yoghurt or croissants or fruit or cereal or scones or toast, school began at 10. Two hours of teaching with a break in the middle. On day one after nipping to the loo during the break I returned to find a large slice of coffee and walnut cake sitting on my note pad, a mere hour and a half after breakfast. An hour and a half later it was lunch – tomato and lentil soup, bread and a cheese board. It was a tough life.
The afternoons were free for us to do as we pleased and on day one I hid away in a quiet lounge snuggled on a sofa and wrote for an hour or so. As a reward for actually writing I helped myself to some sweets and went for a beautiful solitary walk along the river listening to the water rippling, the birds chattering and feeling the wind blowing my cake coma away. That evening was lasagne and crumble followed by an hour or two in front of the log fire listening to peoples writing and chatting about the day.
On Wednesday we woke to rain pouring down the windows and wind howling through the trees. The dry robe came out for the walk across the road to breakfast and a morning of teaching about haunted narrative structures. I surpassed myself, managing to write a ‘blog’ by my usually kind and gentle male character – with reasons for and against him going on an expedition to the rainforest, all over shadowed by a darkness, turning him into a more sinister, unlikeable character suitable for a gothic writing retreat.
The retreat was a time to chill but I was also keen to make the most of every minute. Once the rain dried up some of us went for a walk over the bridge, over some hills, through a wood and along the river. We were rewarded with stunning views, a refreshing breeze and a glimpse of some deer. That evening was a sweet potato bake followed by rice pudding, Anstey’s attempt to warm us up before we went on our dark sky experience with a dark sky ranger. We drove to a field near Threave castle and laid down on the grass, huddling under blankets in the dark we stared at the sky for over an hour. I toasted marshmallows and made s’mores for the retreat teachers – they’ve promised they’ll nominate me for the Booker prize – but didn’t manage one myself for fear of being sick – I think my stomach had finally reached its writing retreat capacity. I saw Jupiter and Mars, the Milky Way and shooting stars for the first time ever.
On Thursday there was more wind and rain, perfect staying in and writing weather and and perfect weather for cake of course. Yesterday was orange drizzle, today we had an early morning email letting us know that there was warm banana, courgette and dark chocolate loaf for breakfast! Yes for breakfast, and we all knew there’d be some for our mid morning break too. This eating malarkey was as serious as this writing malarkey. Thursday afternoon was a writing and a bit more chilling afternoon followed by the most delicious potatoes ever, home grown kale, courgette and feta loaf and then strudel. A few more people were scheduled to read their work, myself included, and despite the fact that we’d been reading each other snippets of our morning writing exercises I was still nervous. To be honest whatever I read was soon forgotten once we began a game of ‘the psychiatrist,’ ‘the empire,’ and then ‘Helen’s gran’s honeymoon game’ – the finer details of which shall remain forever on the retreat. Hilarious, raucous, and the most fun and laughter I’ve had in a very long time.
The final day didn’t disappoint on the food front and definitely didn’t on the writing front. Not only were the left over delicious garlicky potatoes from last night cooked into a breakfast tortilla but there was also freshly baked French apple cake. It was the final day so it would have been rude not to have both – for breakfast. It was also a necessity to fuel the final morning of writing. A brilliantly planned murder at a writing retreat in Bridge of Dee. Thanks, Megan Taylor The tutor – in the story – came to a rather gruesome end along with all but one of the fictitious writers all described in great detail by us. One by one we cleverly added details of the actual writing retreat, from the cake to the games to the body on the kitchen floor to the fake and real plants and back round to the cake.
After more soup and cake and bread and cheese a few of us ventured further than across the road for our final afternoon – to a chocolate shop because we all agreed that whilst we were full of cake there was probably still a little room for some chocolate. Our last excursion was to a secluded sandy little cove at the end of a lane surrounded by hills and greenery and beauty – here we went for a swim – a plan that had been brewing all week. Five of us went for a dip, a twenty minute dip during which I pinched myself at how enjoyable and fun and relaxing my week had been and also to check I hadn’t gone completely numb. All the apprehension from the beginning had been forgotten, new friends had been made and a start to a new book had been attempted inbetween alot of fun and laughter.
Bubbles in the train carriage later on warmed me through and Friday night fish followed by Scottish cranachan were for supper. I think Anstey was making sure there was definitely no space left in us before we returned to England. Chilling in the lounge, listening to the last two readers, I looked around the room and thought how lucky I was to have the opportunity to go on the retreat, to have met these people and to have survived all the cake.
Mary's Little Yak 
November 1, 2022 at 11:48 pm
Wow, sounds like an amazing retreat x
LikeLiked by 1 person