Quaint People: Travel as Inspiration.

I just came across this: scribbled as a blog in my notebook when I was in Ireland. As I have just  written about Castletownshend and Edith Somerville I thought this note deserved to be transferred properly from my notebook to this blog.

Tools of the trade,

'How I love to travel and stay! And when I am in any place I love to try and understand its nature by dint of a little looking, a little reading, a little thinking, a lot of empathising.

My mission when staying in any place is as a writer, not an historian or an anthropologist (although I do enjoy dipping into these disciplines). 

So, inevitably in my life I have been  tempted to write about these places. I travelled to the Languedoc for five successive years and out of that came  Englishwoman In France and then my just completed novel, The Art of Retreating. (Extract) (Another extract here.) I have also just finished a long short story which is set in those regions but is cooking on the back boiler and has not yet seen the light of day.

These are all clearly works which would never existed had I not traveled, stayed in and loved France.   

Now  I find that  it's Ireland's turn to become my source of inspiration.  

I have just reminded myself that earlier times in Ireland inspired the beginning of my novel Under a Brighter Sky. * Also article here  In that novel the family walk out of a distressed Ireland and take a boat to Liverpool. From there they walk to North East England to find work in the railway shops of Shildon and to participate in the Industrial Revolution on the English mainland -  just as others migrated to the new worlds in the United States of America and Australia.

What they left behind was a country virtually untouched by a significant nineteenth century leap into the modern world. The  residue of colonial domination underpinned by military power meant that for a time the minority ruling class could live on in feudal style increasing battered grandeur which on the surface did not value the vibrancy of the original Gaelic culture and the succeeding Norman-Anglo-Irish-Culture. These people may never have been to England or, in visiting, be seen as quaint Irish incomers enriching the literary and artistic life of London. But they were loyal to the Crown and their menfolk fought in many wars in defence of that Crown which they saw as their own.

 Even after the evolution of an Ireland free of English domination, deep in the countryside these obsolete set of values and attitudes ticked on, survived in pockets to a quaint and remarkable extent, These were people obsessed with the countryside, hunting over wild land, knowing and loving their dogs and horses as well as and more than the country Irish around them.

This unique life  as I said in my last post (below) was documented beautifully in the stories by Somerville and Ross. In its later more battered stages it is reflected in the wonderfully spun stories by Mollie Keane such as Good Behaviour.

Of course there are many gifted modern Irish writers of great repute whose novels enjoy universal literary acclaim. But I find myself fascinated by those ambiguous times when what it was to be Irish was such a mixed bag. There must be a new story for me there.  Perhaps I need to travel to Ireland a few more times to find it...' 

NB Written in the Customs House in Castletownshend, Cork.



 *still on Amazon in paperback and will be available on Kindle in September.

Under a Brighter Sky: Stage 2 in My Novel Marathon

Discovering the Novel Process.

I loved this jacket design by Len Thurston

Writing a series of novels as I have over the years has been a whole learning process. With each novel I have learned something new.With Riches of the Earth I came to learn the sheer discipline of putting a whole network of stories together into one narrative that took me and the reader through twenty five years of two families' lives.

Under a Brighter Sky (now also available on Kindle) was my second adult novel; by the time I was offering the manuscript to headline I'd got to know my editor Anne Williams (now a fine literary agent) quite well and she was giving me very sound advice. I learned such a lot from Anne through the years. She enjoyed my writing and always had great structural advice. With this novel she advised me to begin my novel at the third chapter - where Greg finds Biddy the exhausted old Irishwoman in a ditch. In essence the advice was to begin with the first dramatic moment. Bingo! Anne was absolutely right. 


I have a feeling I have begun all my subsequent novels at Chapter Three...

And now for you:

About the story:

The wild Catholic Farrells and the straitlaced Protestant McNaughtons live less that a mile apart  But the two clans are only brought together when the Farrells' Aunt Biddy- who has shipped from famine-torn ireland and walked from Liverpool to County Durham to find the last remaining shreds of her family - is found exhausted in a ditch by Greg McNaughton.  But when Tommo Farrell comes home to find his sister Shona entertaining Greg and the old woman he loses his temper and  throws them both out into the winter night, leaving Greg with no choice but to take the old foundling into his own home.

      Then Biddy Farrell creates friction between the families, and when Margaret McNaughton is found wandering the streets one night and a prostitute is murdered, the finger of blame points to Tommo Farrell.

Set in the dourly impressive coal country of the North East and the teeming Metropolis of Nineteenth Century Manchester this novel centres on love, repression and freedom and I hope follows on from Riches of the Earth in  what Pat Barker judged to be  '...vivid characterisation, a compelling story combine to produce an original and memorable novel.'

From the beginning of the story:

Tommo and Shona reflect their childhood in Ireland.

      'What do you best remember? About things back there?' His voice was whistful...

        'Home?'she answered. 'Oh.... the fine days when th rain was really soft, no more than a fine veil. Our mammy holding onto Gerard's arms, laughing at Richie's antics. And our Daddy standing on the edge of a field of fully grown corn. And him by the smithy fire with your sweating st the bellows. And Maire sitting in the window waiting for us to come home.'

         He poured lukewarm water into a jug and drank it to the last drop, wiping the residue from his chin with the back of his hand. 'We're all right here, aren't we Shona? You, me and our Richie? Plenty money from the ironworks?'

        She laughed. 'Maybe. But there'll  never be plenty money as long as you pour it down your throat. Or place it on lame horses or digs...Good job I've got me own wage.'

         'Ain't no need for you to work down the pit, Shona. Dirty work that, for a woman...'

From near the end of the story:

To her annoyance Shona had hardly seen Greg all week. He spent Friday on some errand in Priorton and they had only managed to  see each other briefly after supper. The idle life at Garth End did not suit her and she took it out on Greg, 'I haven't seen you all week,' she whispered to him on the stairs.

      'I've been around,' he grinned. 'You must be blind.'

      'No!' She went bright red.'I mean properly. To talk to. i want to find some work. I'm used to working. I've earned my own money since I was a pit girl and I don't intend stopping now.'

        You want to go  back down the pit? Or back on the stage at the Variety Hall in Priorton?' His tone was neutral...

I hope you enjoy it! wx

Scroll down for more details about the writing of the earlier novel 

RICHES OF THE EARTH

Post Card 10: A Day of Mist or Fog and Good Food

Mist ot Fog?

Weatherwise Tuesday was superficially the worst day of the holiday as there was a sea fret - or fog - or mist that persisted all day. Still warm, though.

So we jumped the car and rode rhrough the mist along the coast to Goleen, via Schull, enjoying spooky mist-laden views of  lake and lagoon and  bog. We passed the turn off for Bantry where so many thousands set off to emigrate in the 19th century to escape famine,  poverty and oppression.

As we purred along the modern well made road we wondered about the length of this journey - on the old bumpy route - travellng in a pony and trap, on horse or in a carriage. Or on foot of course.

We are not alone. D said she's read an old Independent article that described this region as the Irish Dordogne, as it is the refuge for so many rather well known arty and creative people.  I saw a notice of Lord Puttnam - a long term resident - opening a literary festival here. The upmarket restaurants and some shops here and there reflected this affluent presence.

We stopped at Schull on our way back and had the best pub lunch ever, served with great charm at  Hacketts, as we  ate and talked to the tune of mid-twentieth century jazz. A great way to spend a misty day...

Wish you were here
wxx

Eating out is one thing but for the lovely food we've had here in the house see D's Licked Spoon blog 

Drawing My Own Irish Conclusion - 5th Postcard

Water Pump

Postcard 5

As you know I'm somewhat fascinated by the ancient water pump outside the back door of this house. Although it's missing its handle - which would have been large  - it is elegant standing there by the wall.

So elegant, in fact, that I decided to draw it; I am on holiday after all.

So I took my drafting book - Sean got it for me in Skibbereen -  thick drawing paper, bound in black. I turned past the three pages of the new novel, found a fresh page and started to draw,

I needed a table for my coffee and pencils so I improvised with a heavy zinc bucket and a roof slate that was lying around.

Then I sat down outside the scullery in a folding garden chair and started to draw.  There  in the sunshine I felt around me other women - cooks, scullery maids and skivvies - who must have sat there on sunshiny days in the past,  peeling potatoes, shelling peas, sewing tea-towels, mending socks and braiding hair: sisters all.

 Of course in those days the water pump would have had its elegant handle and would have been used for water for the house,

I'd forgotten how much I like drawing: not very good at it but it's very restful and perhaps only possible on holiday where the air is light and bright and clear.

Wish you were here
wx

My very humble drawing...

Postcard 2: Beach Picnic

Picnic at Toe head, the Lickowen Beach: egg sandwiches, flask tea, crisps & KitKat,

Shale beach, clear cloudless sky; bright sun on our faces, the air smelling of sea-weed, salt, oil and nutmeg.

A favourite  travel companion 'the boy who loves chocolate' blends with the landscape.

Lickowen Beach

twinkling diamonds
crest the waves
then, joining hands,
make necklaces
in the surging tide


Wish you were here
wxx