Love, Port Eliot and Penzance Literary Festival

I am in love. You know - that heart racing, toe tapping sensation that lifts you several inches off the ground. Sharpens all your senses. Leaves a beatific smile on your face and gives you a warm, Ready Brek glow that touches everyone you pass.

But before you get excited, this is due to no man. This is because of the Port Eliot festival which I went to for the first time on Sunday. As it’s fairly laid back, I thought I’d enjoy it but was unprepared for the sheer depth and scope of the place. The setting is wonderful to start off with – a hidden estate nestled next door to the mystical-sounding Menheniot, yet not far from blustering, sprawling Plymouth.

We arrived by train and followed others to a doorway in an old stone wall. Port Eliot Estate, it read, and we entered a world of magic. There was so much to see – first in the Walled Garden, then we stumbled through a fairytale garden with whirls of colour and books. The scent of cooking wafted towards us tingling our taste buds. Next door clothes of all kinds were displayed in rows of jangling colour, next door to secret stalls of jewellery, and short wellies called Spats. A Flower Garden; a maze, a Hulaboloo play area for kids. Around every corner was a different exploration that roused and bombarded, soothed and seduced the senses.

Further on we found a path through elegant beech trees winding down to the river, watched those jumping in, cavorting with glee on the mud banks. Emerging shivering, wrapped in towels, by a stall selling Bellinis. The house itself was straight from a fairy tale – quiet, turreted splendour with towers for Rapunzel. A Round Room with amazing murals by Lenkiewicz. And who knows what else? I ran out of time to explore.

“I had Kate Winslet for breakfast,” said Phil longingly – for Kate read from the book Mr Gum to a rapt audience (of mostly men, for she was wearing black shorts, revealing muscular thighs, and shiny, pristine Hunter boots). Even Jilly’s rapacious mosquito bites didn’t deter her enthusiasm as we sat in the sunshine with a well earned beer.

From a bench we watched as a horse drawn cart conveyed luggage to and from the campsites, gypsy caravans snuggled next to a horse box where you could discover a New You, and we sampled a selection of eateries on the lawn by the stunning house offering everything from Pimms, ice cream and falafels to pork baps, haloumi sarnies and Thai curries.

Us music lovers were drawn to the Big Top where we listened to all kinds of bands under hot lights that rotated green, blue and pink, while the music pounded against my breastbone like hot adrenaline, making even my cup shake.

I emerged pixillated and speechless, longing to share my experiences with those friends that would have loved it but couldn’t make it. But how? I sat on the train scribbling, texting, but mere words couldn’t convey my experience of this amazing day.

Now I need another music fix – fast – and unfortunately our choir is having a summer break. Then I remember it’s our lovely musical director’s birthday this Saturday, so we are all meeting for tea, cakes and a Big Sing. So think of us with crumbs on our laps and music in our heads, singing our hearts out for Claire.

And back to matters literary - if anyone is in Penzance this Thursday 28th, Fi Read and I are giving our talk for the Penzance Literary Festival at 2pm at the Acorn Theatre. Come and give us some moral support!

Unexpectedly Happy Days

I had the most amazing week – Regent Cottage is lovely with a wonderful secret garden, and going somewhere on our own (me and molls) with no former associations was just what I needed. I felt happy and secure there and fine on my own – in fact relished the time I had to myself.

I missed Pip, of course: we had been to Penzance on many occasions, but it felt fine to be there without him. Partly what made the week so good, I realised, was that I wasn't constantly worrying about him. Whether his cough was bad, was he OK on his own, should I hurry back to be with him. Did he want to go for a drink, had he got a video to watch, enough to read etc. Was he feeling down, was he too tired? What did I need to do? Going away made me realise how much of a strain the whole of the last year was - not just the last few months.

For once all I had to do was look after myself and that made life so much easier. Freer. I bumped into all sorts of people I knew – all to do with writing – including Peter, who's organising the Penzance Literary Festival which he's asked me to take part in again. I met another journalist who belongs to the same journo forum as me. I visited the wonderful Book Cafe in St Just and got talking to more writerly, book loving types who were fascinated to hear that I write walks.

Viv and Titch came and we did three wonderful and very long walks, getting lost along the way. At one point we met this red haired sprightly fellow who was also pounding the coastal footpath – we'd bumped into him the previous day but he seemed to have shed his girlfriend and gained two walking sticks.

“How come he's so sprightly?” said Viv as he whizzed up and down the granite strewn path.

“He doesn't have two dogs, three guide books, a map, a tape recorder and a camera,” I muttered. As Viv has just had a Significant Birthday, I didn't add that he was also 30 years younger.....

So the week was productive, exhausting and fun. Coming home was tricky, suddenly hit by an avalanche of emotions that crashed over me like the waves at Land's End. And since then I am beset by sudden plunges of grief that hurtle me down like a tombstoner. But that's bound to happen. I take a deep breath and swim underwater. Go with it, don't fight it. It passes and I reach dry land again.

When I went to pick up Bussie from the vets they said, “You can't have him back! We love him!”

Needless to say, His Lordship has been horribly spoilt but has become very affectionate and has taken to sleeping on the bed as well as Mollie. So there I am squashed somewhere in the middle: a Flowerpot Sandwich. I was wondering about getting a smaller bed now, but have decided it's just as well we have a King Size bed......

Cheers!

(This is Himself, Not Entirely Sober, which befits the ending of this post.)

There is better news this week, I'm glad to say, after The Week From Hell.

Poor Bussie (large black and white moggie, sole male resident of Flowerpot House) had to have a second operation to stitch him up following a bad cat fight. He's been in the vet hospital for a week now but hope he can come home soon although Molls and I are away in a few days – my dear brother in law will be looking after Bussie though. I am trying not to think about The Bill which has reached £200 and add on that another week of vet hospital fees plus food and flea stuff etc......

But I have two bits of good news: I have got a commission to interview Bill Bryson in June. And I have just been to have a meeting about a possible project with Cornwall & Devon Media.

The third thing is that Molls and I are going on holiday on Saturday. While I know I need the break, I am a little apprehensive about how I will manage. Here, at home, Pip is all around me. Where will he be in Penzance?

But I have deliberately chosen a cottage we've never been to before and it sounds ideal. It has a garden, parking for two cars and is close to the sea front. Near the pub where we went last time we stayed there. It is round the corner from a friend of mine and from our dear cousins.

So I have a support network in Penzance which is good to know, and a very good friend is coming to stay, as is my mum for a few nights.

And I do have this very strong feeling that Pip is with me. It's nothing as clear cut as walking along beside me, but he is around – on the outskirts of my emotionally peripheral vision. I can neither see him nor touch him but he is definitely there. A friend who came to stay the other weekend commented on it, unprovoked, so it's not just me.

Life is full of Firsts right now - the first time I do things without him. Now it's going on holiday. Bill Bryson. First trip to London in years.

So Molls and I will go to Penzance and Pip will come with us. He will even come walking, which he would never do normally. But I think I will take a photo of him with me just in case.

A few (good) things are happening, and as Helen Keller said, “When one door of happiness closes, another opens: but often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one that has been opened for us.”

I can hear Pip rejoicing at my good news. “Come on Flowerpot,” he will say opening a bottle. “Push the boat out!”

A Talk and Dad's Earrings

Our Talk (on Becoming a Freelance Writer) went very well, I'm glad to say. The first 15 minutes were a bit hairy but I got over my nerves and felt a lot better, then actually enjoyed the second half which was a great bonus, and the audience seemed to have a good time too.

I think what made it work was that Fi and I are both unconventional in different ways, and we both work in completely different ways.

She's been to university and trained as a teaching assistant, as well as performing in public a lot so she's not fazed by an audience, and this made me feel a lot better – I knew she would be able to wing it if anything went wrong.

Whereas I have never been to university and apart from a short TV piece several years ago, the last public performance was in Falmouth Theatre's production of Oliver 5 years ago – which I don't think really counts for much as I was in the chorus...

With regard to interviews, Fi says she doesn't plan anything, but lets the interviewee talk as they want, then types up notes in long hand. Whereas I prepare questions, take notes and tape the interview as well - but the end results are the same which is what matters.

I also made notes for the talk – being my first time I knew my brain was likely to seize up without loads of prompts – whereas Fi just ad libbed. But having said that, she had done a very exact running order, down to the last minute, which made all the difference. So a big thank you to Fi for making it all possible.

My mum came, as did Pip and our Penzance cousins (thanks to all of you) and the night before, when Mum and I were having a glass of wine on the sofa, she pointed to her earrings: tiny pearls I don't remember having seen before.

“These were the last earrings your Dad gave me,” she said (though he died 26 years ago). “I thought he should be with us tomorrow for your talk.”

Thanks, Dad.

Family and Talks

Picture taken with family last week over at Daymer Bay.

I get to see my brothers and their families once a year, usually, if that, so it's typical that they should both be down in Cornwall the same week – though sadly not together. So it's been great to catch up on everyone and hear the nephews and nieces' news.

It struck me – once again - how very different our lives are. I am very happy with ours, but very glad I don't have the financial stresses and strains that they do. Skint but happy is the rule that applies here, but I could see that our comparatively simple way of life baffles them. We don't have children, of course, which makes a big difference but much though I love my brothers, I did feel on a different planet most of the time. (I expect they did too.) Nurture versus Nature and all that....

Work has been suddenly busy which is good, and on Thursday another journalist, Fi Read and I are giving a talk on Becoming a Freelance Writer at the new Penzance Literary Festival. Whether we actually get an audience of more than 10 remains to be seen but I'm telling myself it's good practice. Though for what I'm not sure.

So think of us on Thursday morning – Fi's more experienced at public performance than I am and is very laid back about it. I am counting on her to rescue the day should I make a complete hash of it.....