Archive for the ‘France’ Category

Returning to Agde


2010
06.19

It is still there – the place and the people I spent two months living in and around last year. Of course it is. Agde has been there for two and half thousand years, one of the very oldest towns in France. So why would it not be waiting  just as before?

Going back was emotional for all kinds of reasons ( I shed a tear on arrival, on seeing Wendy) – it had been such a creative time, it had been time out, a watershed, a new found freedom, the beginning of  a new life – and so I guess I was fearful that it wouldn’t live up to its former promise. I need not have worried, Agde offered all of these propects still, and meeting up with friends Alan and Nira and acquaintances like the lovely lady in the Cafe Capitaine- Thaus – which means peacock in Algerian- only served to reinforce my sense of belonging.

Nothing had changed, except me and I was suddenly very aware how in returning we are inevitably looking from a different place.

This is a second draft of my poem from this year’s visit – I will continue to work on it once I’ve put it away and forgotten it

The Weather In The Streets

A cold wind blows unseasonal rain at my back.

Nothing has changed but the weather in the streets,

this thin clothed June  stripped of sun still whispers

in my ear, stirs the foreign tongue, amphorae

pulled from the the mouth of the sea, from the pea-green

Herault precious boody* washed smooth in memory’s drum

past the rub of sea bed silt that breaks piece by

piece the blue glass vase, while above

in this year’s rain geraniums grow tall, blood red

burning against the basalt of before. Nothing has changed

but the mirror I hold to memory’s face, its fragments and

the place I look back from, the pot of last year’s wine.

* Boody is small pieces of collected treasure – shells, glass etc

Fortunately for us Agde is west of Marseille – I was shocked and saddened to hear of the floods and  the loss of life further along the coast in Draguignan and the surrounding area, the news was just breaking as I made my way back to England

Why Crime Fiction?


2010
04.30

L'Herault, Agde, taken during my stay last year - I was very sad to leave - see left under Inspiration- for my poem

Last year, during two hot months in France I wrote the first draft of my new (now completed) novel about a Private Investigator.

Until then I had not anticipated writing crime fiction and there are times still when I find myself surprised by this turn of events in my writing life. Times when I ask myself – why crime fiction?

I think this P.D. James quote goes a long way to answering my question – she says ‘I learned a lot from Dorothy Sayers, I think. I learned that it’s important to write well. She was a good writer. I learned…that you can use  a detective story…to say something true, or something you really believe in – and to illumine contemporary life.’

A number of crime writers I admire, Henning Mankell for one, have said something similar: that moving into crime fiction was the means for them of exploring  social issues and moral dilemmas.

Ian Rankin, defender of the genre says ‘…the best crime fiction today is actually talking to us about the same things big literary novels are talking about. They are talking about moral questions, taking ordinary people and putting them in extraordinary situations, and saying to the reader, “How would you cope in this situation?” Or saying, “How would you feel about living in a world in which this these crimes are allowed to happen?” I don’t see a distinction between the two. I think some of the best crime fiction is literature. And some of the best literature is crime fiction.’

I’m inclined to agree – after all a good novel is a good novel is a ….and for me, crime fiction, is most definitely the  place in which I can explore the darker aspects of  the world I live in, including the lives of many of the women I worked with in prison, while at the same time doing what I enjoy most – writing.

And writing my crime novel was probably the most fun I’ve had in my writing life to date!

Looking forward very much to 11.00 am Sunday and P.D. James interviewed by Val McDermid at the Hexham Book festival (now sold out)

Sushi, Poetry and the Laing Gallery


2009
07.12
A detail from the Burne Jones windows

A detail from the Burne Jones windows

 

On Thursday I did some research for my novel about Private Investigator Danny Beck. This involved trying sushi for the first time at the Yosushi bar in Fenwick’s Food Hall. As a consequence I  have decided that Beck definitely eats sushi with plenty of wasabi when he has a hangover! 

It also involved a visit to the Laing Gallery cafe to look at the wonderful Burne Jones stained glass windows which dominate the space.  Beck sometimes meets Sarah here - she is a landscape artist and the love of his life but she is married to his best friend. 

Yesterday I spent the day reading poetry and working on my poems from the Languedoc. I also ordered some poetry from Amazon – How the Bicycle Shone by Gillian Allnutt, who lives and works here in County Durham. I would really like to learn so much more about writing poetry and I am very conscious that the first thing to do is READ as much as I can.

Some of my poems seem hard come by others arrive easily – here is one that arrived yesterday, its about leaving France

 

Leaving

 Now the trees in the Jeu de Ballon are flowering

in feathers and the oleander’s brilliance is gone

 

today the heat seems more welcome than before

beneath the red canopy of the Café Plaza -

 

the faces more familiar and the sun on my feet

softer falling in pools on the dusty bedroom floor -

 

the wind off the Herault cooler as it runs

upstream to pebbled seas and diving bridge gorge  -

 

the bark of the plain tree more dappled in the square

where the empty stage has yet to be deconstructed -

 

the building’s skin greyer, muted blue and flat

shuttered as the afternoon heat peels paint from wood

 

while at the open window above me a purple

curtain shifts, catches in the white cat’s paw

 

and snags the thread of leaving from this place of now

how quickly it runs away, and the days empty.

 

My three good things for today -  reading my poems from yesterday, working at the table alongside my son David, a cup of tea and a Tunnocks tea cake (the way they melt in your mouth -ummm!)

Reflections on a Writer’s Gift


2009
07.01

 

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Reflections on the river -L' Herault

 

 There were so many things about Agde that were a writer’s gift, not least the sheer uninterrupted time in which to do nothing but WRITE or think or talk about writing. Already, although it is wonderful to be home I find there are so many things that distract – some of these, most of these, are good things, enjoyable things as well as the chores but all take up time and take time away from the writing.

I miss the way time was in Agde – the way the only thing I had to be was a writer.

As well as this gift of time Agde also offered up the gift of the new – the way that being somewhere new and exotic floods your senses and sharpens your thinking, the way it makes you look. There is so much looking and seeing and that it is good for a writer.

Being somewhere for two months also brings new knowledge and a growing sense of  the different communities who live there. One may only observe from the edge but in time one begins to feel a sense of belonging – of being a small part of this place – still guessing but learning all the time.

I came away from Agde knowing much more about it than when I arrived

I know…where to buy the best croissant and how the price of cherries alters according to the day -  where to eat moules frites and delicious plat du jour …  the clarity of the light, the way it falls on the water and beneath the trees …the roads the fisherman cycle home after a day on the canal…the fields where the bee eaters live… how to find the shepherds hut, the oreilles’ wood… the way to the sea past the banks of thistles… the walk to La Guingette and how good their house cocktail with coconut tastes… the girls who serve in the cafes, the postman, the librarians, the swifts that fly at the window… the roof terrace with plants and naked man…how the one way system works, where the kerbs are too steep to lift your bicycle onto the pavement…. where there is a dog with three legs… how the voices of the Gitane echo through the narrow streets… where a bike is being slowly dismantled, a wall built, the architect lives… where a barge is moored that sailed from England, a beautiful house by the river with roses and jasmine in the garden… where to buy the bargains on the linen stall on market day …the colours of the shutters and doors… the silence of the afternoon…the way the language sounds but only some of what to say…that one day I will go back

But most of all I came away from Agde knowing that I was indeed a writer and maybe even a poet - after all who else but a writer would go off for two months and come back with 80,000 words?

The Abbaye de Valmagne


2009
06.25

 

 

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Today we visited the Abbaye de Valmagne. It was founded in the year 1139, and was once one of the richest abbeys in the south of France. It is also among the most ancient Domaines in the Languedoc – the Cistercians being expert in wine growing.

- Every summer the Abbey hosts a music festival.

 It was a beautiful and contemplative place having something of the Alhambra about it. These are some thoughts/sketches from my visit, which in time with the help of my photographs ,I will use to write a poem to add to my growing Laungedoc collection

 - In the Abbaye de Valmagne a ghost hung on my shoulder, shadowing me in the pale  light of the cloisters, dipping its fingers in the icy spring pool and smoothing the velvet moss that dripped from the fountain.Together we stepped in pools of buttery light under rose tinted stone. 

In the long high nave we whispered of cool places where candles flicker and splutter in the east winds.In the garden we touched quince and cardoons, held lavender, honeysuckle and bay under our noses.

 In the evening we sat by pink geraniums in green urns, and …tous les vendredis de l’ete  we drank Domain de Valmagne and listened to Chopin and Gershwin

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The Seduction of the Screen


2009
06.22

screen-3

 

As our two month sojourn in France draws to an end so does the first draft of my novel.

I now have 80,000 words and it seems amazing to me that I could have written so much in these two months. It is down to what I like to think of as the writing heat of France. But it is also about a departure from my normal method of working which is to write in a notebook and then transcribe onto the laptop.

 Here I have done something very different which is to work directly on the screen. It wasn’t particularly intentional, it just happened, perhaps because I’d already done a lot of thinking about this novel before I wrote my first words. Working on the screen like this is fast and it is different. What I have now, is virtually unedited, absolutely first draft, whereas normally when I transcribe it means my work on screen has already gone through a major edit.

 I have really enjoyed working on the screen like this but only because I’ve given myself the freedom to write fast, without putting on my editor’s head, so that what appears still has, I hope, that first glorious creative splurge.

 The danger of course is that once something gets on the screen it looks more perfect than it is!

 So how to avoid the trap of thinking once your work is on the screen it’s good enough? My advice is make it strange!One thing that works quite well for me is using zoom. In the first place I took to using it to help my eyes which tend to get tired but I also discovered that when text is zoomed up to say 130% it is difficult to see it as a page in a book. You cannot scan it in the same way and you are forced to look at what you’ve written line by line.

 I realise of course that for many writers working directly on the screen has always been their preferred method of working and it works well and successfully but I still think there is something to be said for maintaining a certain caution -

- and guarding against the seduction of the screen that, Lavinia Greenlaw describes when she writes about poetry – ‘I do not write on a computer as I like to see what I have crossed out. A computer offers the seductive image of printed text. You may forget that what you have on your screen is a rough draft. The ease with which you can move, delete and revise your words can be deceptive and disorientating. Try to stick for as long as possible with paper and pen.’

I think the advice about sticking with paper and pen is particularly true of poetry and I have definitely experienced the disorientation of moving the words in a poem around so much the only thing I can do is start again – and not on the screen but in my notebook!

In case you are struggling to read the words on my picture of the screen – here they are – from Chapter 3 of the new novel:

It was five forty five, an hour before the club opened. It was an hour before anyone would appear on the other side of the glass, before they would sit down and before a voice, sometimes confident, sometimes pale; occasionally brash, would fall from the shadowy face and ask her to begin. Or perhaps not, maybe they would wait for her to ask what it was they wanted; what it was they would like to see. Sometimes they were snarling and abusive and the heat of their anger seeped through the glass.

             But the glass was shatter proof.

             Mostly they were quiet and contained, half seen but rich, at least rich in Gina’s world. It cost to see Gina.

The Field Where The Grass Burns Yellow…


2009
06.15

 

bee-eaters-1

Not taken by me !

 

The first time I saw a bee eater was over thirty years ago, on a beautiful tropical morning near a beach, now sadly part of a war zone – on the east coast of Sri Lanka, near Trincomalee.

   We were newly arrived on the island and had made a hasty retreat from the capital Colombo which had proved too much of a culture shock. From Colombo bus station we fled across the island on what proved to be a magical, if decidedly uncomfortable ride, into the dense jungle interior, through the rich greens of palms and giant ferns, past small lakes and rice paddies where the white egrets perched on the backs of the water buffalo and kingfishers flashed turquoise.

  We ended our journey at Uppavelli on the Indian Ocean and that is where the next morning on our way to the beach we saw the bee eaters – sat on a wire fence. They shone like jewels and I thought that they were the most exotic creatures I had ever seen.

  Imagine how I felt then when Alan and Nira asked me casually if I’d seen the field where the bee eaters were nesting  (bee eaters nest on the ground – I didn’t know that).

 I had not! Alan duly drew me a map not only showing the bee eater field but also the wood where the golden Oreilles could be heard, although rarely seen as they are very shy birds.

   I set out one blisteringly hot morning to the bee eater field, just out of town, behind the garden centre along a single track road. When I got to the field it was all furrows, dry earth and small mounds like hives – the nests. I saw the bee -eaters then high up on the telegraph wires, silhouetted against the sun.

  I sat in some scratchy grass under the shade of an olive tree and waited for them to fly. Seen in flight from beneath their wings are like amber, translucent in the sun. Their backs flash bright copper like goldfish and there are glimpses of the emerald and turquoise. I wasn’t as close as I had been all those years ago in Sri Lanka but I was knocked out by just sitting, watching them, in a field of Van Gogh yellow, shimmering in the heat.

And on my way home I heard the Oreilles in the wood.

 I very much want to write a poem about the bee eaters – about them, but also about the passage of time and how one’s response to the world, in this case the natural world -alters – how things are lost, how gained.

 I’m still working on the poem. I found it very hard to get started but I did what I think all learners should do – I thought of the first line of a contemporary poem that I really admired and I used its rhythm and the way it began by the simple naming of the place, as my model – it gave me the confidence to go from there

 The first line of my poem is – The field where the grass burns yellow…

La Guingette *


2009
06.09

 

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La Guingette seen from the other side of the canal

 

I may have talked about Sundays on the roof terrace here in Agde, I know I’ve talked about Sundays long ago when I was a child and what difficult days they sometimes were but now I must tell you that I have discovered the perfect, the best, the only way to spend Sunday and that is at La Guingette – a riverside cafe on the canal at the bend of the Herault (just off the road to Marseillan)

 How do I know about this wonderful place? Alan and Nira of course! What is more on our wild riverside walk to La Guingette (no roads for us) we met Nira en route on her bicycle, and we had café together when we arrived. A wonderful conversation ensued about women who enjoy spending time alone and of course about books – in particular Margaret Forster’s Good Wives – which Nira has kindly loaned us and which I am very much looking forward to reading

 

jungly-river

Our walk along the river to La Guingette

 

La Guingette is my kind of place, where nothing quite matches but the whole is a beautifully stitched quilt. The profusion of pot plants: rubber, avocado, bougainvillea, trailing spider plants, agapanthus and geraniums, blur the café’s edges with the liquid green of the water and the tracery of the plane trees overhead. Here, at tables set on a rough floor of gravel and dried leaves, beneath canopies of bamboo and a myriad of umbrellas you can enjoy a bottle of chilled rose and a delicious Roquefort salad, with aioli, (umm) and all at a leisurely pace – perfect for Sundays and we find, perfect for people -watching as the families arrive for lunch and the café gradually fills with the murmur of conversations.

 

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Before everyone arrives for Sunday lunch

 

Being at La Guingette remided me so much of the travellers haunts I frequented with John in India and Sri Lanka in the early eighties: makeshift huts, bamboo ceilings, pot plants, palms, and seas, rivers or mountains all within reach. Old hippie that I am, I was in my element at La Guingette and I am already planing to return  to spend my soon to be celebrated birthday there.

 For the romantically inclined there are bouquets and single roses for sale – it’s a romantic kind of place. It’s a mix of Renoir, in all its vibrant colour and its couples dancing by the waterside, which I’m told happens, and wait for it!  Dennis Quaid (a favourite of mine)  in The Big Easy – well, there is live music here sometimes and as we walked in I definitely heard the strains of the accordion played in that very soulful French/ Louisiana way. I hope there’s dancing on my birthday!

 

la-g-close1

View from our table

*A Guinguette is a popular drinking establishments in the suburbs of Paris and other cities in France. Ginguettes might also serve as restaurants and, often, as dance venues. The origin of the term comes from guinguet, indicating a sour white light local wine.

Every Word Counts


2009
06.05

 

bridge-2

The Bridge in the Evening Light

 

Since coming to France I have been writing a lot more poetry. I’m not sure why this is, but I think maybe it’s about having the time and distance in which to explore my writing.

Because I have been writing both prose (my new novel) and poetry I have been thinking a lot about the parallels between the forms. In my attempt to learn more about poetry and to improve what I write I have been struck by how often advice that is given to poets applies equally to the novelist. Take for example the problem of over writing or too much description – it is a problem many writers, including myself, come up against particularly when they are starting out and are writing their first novel – we are in love with our words, we can’t help it!

But too much description, no matter how well done, will hold up the narrative, slow the pace and can bog down the reader.

Lavinia Greenlaw who I think offers some of the best advice for would be poets says -

‘Every word should count – for its meaning as well as its music. Every image, however fantastical, should make complete sense within the context of the poem. If something you have written particularly impresses you, question it all the more.‘  

Charles Simic says, ‘Some of the greatest poems in the language are sonnets and poems not many lines longer than that, so don’t overwrite.’

It’s sometimes very hard to edit out words or phrases that we particularly like and I have been struggling with this in my poetry. However I know I am beginning to learn that sometimes, although I may think the words are great, they have to be sacrificed because they do not have a place in the poem -or perhaps because they obscure rather than promote clarity – and in a poem every word has to count.

Sometimes of course they are good and can stay! We have to be careful not to throw out what is good -or sometimes they work somewhere else in the poem or as part of a title.

It is of course different with the novel’s more expansive form but there is a similar need for caution when using description – the maxim more is less comes to mind (see earlier post)

 

So now to some poetry – this is a poem I began not long after I came and I have been working on it for a few weeks now. It started off being a lot more complicated. It began to form in my mind after I saw a man, a vagrant, on the canal path. I started thinking about him and what his life might be like and how I really knew nothing about him

 Like any poem it is a work in progress, something to come back to after time, after it has rested – to be improved, changed.

 

Presumption

On the thin pathways of the

morning I see him

by the canal, sometimes the bridge -

two dogs, two ropes, two bags

one on his back

two pairs of trousers one cut

above the other -

 

in the thick green soup of the

afternoon I see him

by the river sometimes the boats

two broken-backed boots,

ankle high and slow

moving to the lazy paddle

of the flat black turtle

 

two coats and matted hair

dogs hair matching I see him

sit in needles of light

beneath the roosting pigeons

that coo the voices of regret

and the presumptions

of sorrow

 

I see him step aside

give way and kneel,

in the hollows of courtesy

to the confusions of belief,

while around him the

nightingales call to prayer

 

in the quiet silver light of the

evening – I think I see him -

lying curled between his dogs

in the olive groves.

 

For more discussion on description in your writing and some good sound advice for writers you might like to  go to Writing out West

The Feast of Pentecost and The Orange Prize- Celebrations!


2009
06.02

How great to hear the news from Charlie, librarian at HMP Low Newton, that he has been interviewed by the Guardian newspaper about the Orange Prize for Fiction reading group at HMP Low Newton – the article should appear on Wednesday, (tomorrow) the day the winner is announced. So don’t forget to buy your copy and take a look.

Update – for a link to the article and fab picture http://www.guardian.co.uk/society/2009/jun/03/prison-book-club

 The original idea was brainwave of Writer In Residence Wendy Robertson – and last year a very successful group which included, inmates, librarians, learning shop staff and governors read the short list and picked their winner, it  turned out to be the judges choice too -The Road Home – Rose Tremain.

 That Charlie has continued to nurture and develop this unique group is a cause for admiration and for celebration too! These things are not easy to do in prisons. It’s brilliant and I look forward to reading all about it.

 While I’m on the subject of celebration, this weekend Agde celebrated the Feast of Pentecost with its third annual ‘reconstruction historique’ – music, dance, a medieval fair, circus acts, battle enactments, plays – it was all happening Saturday through to Monday. Sometimes it was tricky knowing what century you were in!

The town was full of ladies in satin gowns with lace parasols, men in frilled shirts and ribbons, Napoleonic soldiers on horseback, milkmaids, pirates and courtiers wandering through the town.

 This morning  while drinking my cafe in The Plazza I saw a man in doublet and hose pop into the Tabac, now how surreal is that?

 The French love and celebrate their history and it seems they love dressing up too. Growing up with a mother who was a dressmaker: to the sound of the treadle, the dust of tailor’s chalk, the laying out of cloth - being spoken to through mouthfuls of pins and acting as tailor’s dummy - I spared a thought for the dressmakers of Agde and their daughters too.

 

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I have to confess if I lived in Agde and being my mother's daughter it would be a copy of the pink dress and a lace parasol for me!