Striking a balance

First the bad news - I got my first rejection for FOUR LEFT FEET. It was from an agent who had emailed and asked to see anything new I had, and was very fulsome in her praise (lovely word, fulsome). So I had high hopes. Silly me. Having exchanged various emails, the rejection, when it came, was a standard rejection letter, signed by a secretary. I think you can all guess how I felt. Pah! To put it mildly. But onwards and upwards and all that, so I will send it out again ASAP.

Enough of that. I wanted to talk about striking a balance today. We all have things in our lives that cause friction and interfere with our work. Family, friends, money problems, ill health, falling in love, breakdown of a relationship, schooling troubles – the list goes on and on.

In my case, my problem comes from the two arms of my writing. On one hand (the paying hand) I am a freelance journalist, and on the other I am an unpublished novelist. (But So Nearly There, according to agents!)

I feel like these two aspects of my writing life are like two children. The journalism daughter is called Chrissie. She is extrovert, confident, cheerful and punctual. She will take on anything, loves meeting people, and is very good at meeting deadlines with efficiency and tact. She wears jeans and sporty tops, or smart suits. She goes hiking and walks miles with her bouncy dog. She shops efficiently for food and never runs out of anything. She is, if you like, the conscious side of my brain.

My other daughter, the fiction one, is Felicity. She hides behind me when we meet people, and is always off day dreaming. She lives in awe of her older sister, the confident Chrissie. But she can weave stories with her words, and draw the most stunning pictures that spring into life, making other people wonder at her great talent. She needs to be left alone. She can be temperamental and grouchy, has no idea of time. She will emerge from writing, ravenous, devour food and leave trails of destruction. She runs out of food and has to eat cornflakes. She has low blood sugar levels from her mood swings. She likes sloppy clothes, floaty dresses and long skirts. She walks her dogs for miles over fields and paths, sits enraptured by the side of the sea, drinking it all in. She is the subconscious side.

And me? I'm the mum in the middle, with these two girls pulling me in ever opposing directions. Sometimes Chrissie takes us off in one direction, and we have an action filled day and return full of life and zing. At other times Felicity takes us and we have a day in the country, picnicking and enjoying the quieter, purer things of nature – with the odd extraordinary adventure thrown in.

Life goes well as long as there is a balance between these two. If there is not, that's when the trouble starts. One starts shouting, the other cries and life is discordant, my sleep is troubled, and I feel pulled in too many directions, don't know what to do or which way to go.

These are my two children whom I love dearly, but I've learnt the hard way that it's so important to keep a balance between the two of them.

What are your conflicts?

Do you believe in Guardian Angels?

A few weeks ago our cooker died so we tracked down a second hand one and went down to St Ives one sunny Saturday to collect it. St Ives, in season, is one of my least favourite places, but in early May it was bearable and we even managed to park, having got the cooker, and had a couple of hours strolling round in the sunshine.

Despite the crowds of early grockles (tourists), the sun made it all bearable and there were plenty of glimpses of what a special, fairytale like places St Ives was, and why so many people flocked there to paint.

Back home we then had the problem of trying to heave the old cooker out onto the pavement (which is five foot above road level), given that I'm not superwoman and Himself isn't getting any younger. We managed it, with a lot of heaving, sweating and swearing, and left it on the pavement outside the flat. Next we got the sack truck and lugged the new cooker up as far as the bit of pavement opposite the house which is on a steep slope.

As we stood there, I suggested ringing a friend. “Rob would help,” I said cheerfully. Himself refused – of course (male pride?) and we braced ourselves for the next heave when a young fellow – in his mid 20s at a guess – came along the road, wearing jeans, a hoodie and with a sharp face like a ferret.

“Wanna hand?” he said.

“Thanks – that would be great,” I said, before Himself could refuse.

So our new mate stubbed out his rollup and picked up the cooker. Given his skinny frame I was surprised he could lift anything more than a packet of fags, but up came the cooker and the next thing we knew he and it were inside the house.

We stood and gaped in astonishment, but he shrugged. “Wanna hand with the other one?” he said.

Himself declined and I decided not to push it this time, but beamed happily as matey shuffled off. “Wasn't that good timing?” I said, thinking no way would Himself have accepted help if I hadn't pushed it.

He grunted, and I wondered if we should have offered tea, or a beer? I looked down the road - given that it's a long street, I reckoned he'd be half way along. I could call after him, offer him a coffee or something.

But there was no sign of him. I ran down the path, surely he must be at the end of the road?

But he'd gone..... just – vanished.

While I like the idea of guardian angels, I find them difficult to fit into everyday life. But now and then you get something that makes you think.....

A Piece of Heaven

Wonderful news - Cornwall Today has just won Magazine of the Year at the Press Gazette Regional Press Awards 2009!

Here is my latest walk, in the May edition, out now.

THE TREASURE OF WEST PENTIRE
A coastal walk taking in Polly Joke beach, West Pentire and Cubert Common


My husband introduced me to Polly Joke shortly after we first met: he'd lived there with his uncle and aunt in the 1960s and was keen to show me “this bit of heaven”. It's now one of our favourite walks, but is best appreciated out of season.

On a clear, bright Friday morning I set off with photographer Rebecca, my husband and Mollie Dog with a holiday sense of excitement that only a trip to Polly Joke can bring. En route were welcome bursts of colour: daffodil shoots nudging green noses skyward; purple scatterings of crocus and miniature wild iris dotted the hedgerow.

At Chiverton Cross roundabout we took the A3075 to Newquay and continued past Goonhavern until we reached a small left hand turn signposted to West Pentire and Crantock. After Crantock village we followed signs to West Pentire, and at the end of the road found Crantock Bay Hotel on our right and the Bowgie (Cornish for cow shed) pub straight ahead. A public car park is just round the corner on the left.

From this car park we returned to the main road and turned left to go through a gate leading to West Pentire Head. Peering over the tamarisk hedges to our right, the sun glistened on the River Gannel estuary and the sand dunes of Crantock Beach. We continued along this path and reached the grassy headland of West Pentire that at various times of the year is dotted with cowslips and poppies.

Today our attention was distracted by a skylark above us that winged its way, higher and higher, singing loudly as it flew – they do this to detract from their nest on the ground. Rebecca and I watched as it soared up, before plummeting back down to the ground in silence. We looked at each other in awe, but our reverie was broken by a bark from Mollie. She stood with her head on one side and I could almost see the bubble over her head saying, “what are you DOING? Come on!”

Obediently moving on, we noticed feral rock pigeons swooping and diving under the cliffs. I rushed to restrain Mollie from chasing them and we followed the coastal path round to the left, looking out on an azure sea covered in foam. We headed downhill, past the spot where my husband buried some Cornish tin jewellery for luck, forever marked by stunted tamarisk trees that are windblown and sparse.

Looking down at Polly Joke was like stumbling across a cove in paradise, it was so perfect, so unspoilt. We stood in silence, then my husband said happily, “it's just sitting there quietly, waiting for us to visit.”

It seemed it was, so we hurried down to the beach. When the tide is out, there is a wide expanse of pure golden sand, dotted with secret caves of swirly slate. These rocks were apparently formed during the Devonian period, about 350 million years ago, and quartz veins can be seen running through them.

A wide stream bisects the beach, and Mollie tore along the sand as we followed, shells crunching underfoot. Families lit half term barbecues and played games of cricket with tennis balls – a sport that an uninvited Mollie joined in with great aplomb. As usual the surfing brigade bobbed in the waves like sleek seals and sheep grazed on Kelsey Head opposite, silhouetted against a deep blue sky.

After a picnic on the beach, we crossed a footbridge and Mollie disappeared into a thicket. Nothing happened for a few minutes, then a huge rabbit lolloped out, white tail bobbing confidently as Mollie followed, with no hope of catching it. Undeterred, she chased a few more rabbits before joining us on a narrow sandy path leading inland through a valley with white pussy willow buds emerging, while buzzards mewed above, searching for prey.

Passing through several gates we emerged into a small field that is a National Trust car park and stopped. Before us was Treago Mill, and Cubert Common to our right, where the winter sunshine cast swooping shadows over the marram grass. The only sounds were the rustling stream, skylarks tweeting above, and Mollie's excited panting. No cars, no sign of life in the deserted campsite opposite. Just us. Another moment to treasure.

We passed through another gate and followed a rough track through Cubert Common looking out for Bronze Age barrows. According to legend, if any of these are disturbed, disaster will come upon Cubert village. As they are all intact, it seems that legend is a good deterrent.

Reaching another gate we saw Higher Moor on our left which is where my husband spent many of his summer holidays. Now there is a fishing pond, where a lone fisherman enjoyed the winter sun, surrounded by a gaggle of Barnacle geese. Gorsebushes sprouted behind, sprinkled with gold bloom and in the hedge was a cluster of pale yellow primroses.

Climbing the hill, Treago Farm campsite sprawled on our right and at the top of the hill we came to a T junction and turned left along the road that we came in on that led back to the car park. We walked in silence, wrapped in our thoughts, aware that it was nearly time to go. Even Mollie was quiet as we settled ourselves on a bench outside the pub.

A visit to Polly Joke is always special, but that day was even more so, for the intense clarity of the light, for the unexpected sunshine warming our backs. I carry an image with me, like a favourite snapshot in the tattered wallet of my mind. Four friends (counting Mollie of course) sitting like sparrows on a bench, drinking in the perfect splendour before us. Vibrant spray crashing off Goose Island, long waves rolling up the Gannel Estuary, and the misty outline of Trevose Head in the distance. What more could anyone wish for?

A Tag for the Taking

I've just been tagged by Wakeup so here it is:-

1.What are your current obsessions?
Writing I suppose. It occupies most of my thoughts. That and trying to get enough sleep.

2. Which item from your wardrobe do you wear most often?
I don't have a wardrobe! Jumpers and a few favourite tops.

3. Last dream you had?
About a young couple who own a bakery – I'm interviewing them in a few weeks!

4. Last thing you bought?
The local paper.

5. What are you listening to?
A car revving in the distance; Mollie squeaking as she dreams; Himself sneezing next door.

6. If you were a god/goddess who would you be?
God of Health, happiness and good sleep. (Greedy, moi?)

7. Favourite holiday spots?
Cant afford holidays.

8. Reading right now?
Re-reading Rhode Island Blues by Fay Weldon.

9. Four words to describe yourself.
Determined, over-sensitive, overly imaginative, unconventional.


10. Guilty pleasure?
White wine – such a shame about hangovers.

11. Who or what makes you laugh until you’re weak?
A chance remark.

12. Favourite spring thing to do?
Walk among the bluebells and smell the wild garlic.

13. Planning to travel to next?
Devon this weekend to see my mum.

14. Best thing you ate or drank lately?
Free range egg on toast for breakfast.

15. When did you last get tipsy?
Last night – our 10th wedding anniversary.

16. Favourite ever film?
Oh, so many! Last one I saw was The Young Victoria – a fabulous love story.

17. Care to share some wisdom?
Hang on in there. The bends take some leaning into, but the straight runs make it all the worthwhile.

18. Song you can't get out of your head?
Tapestry by Carole King.

19. Thing you are looking forward to?
Going to yoga again – I haven't been able to go for months for health reasons.

20 If money were no object, where would you choose to live?
Somewhere warm, by the sea, with a large garden and a spare bedroom for when friends come to stay.

I'm exhausted now! Please take this and run if you want.

An Awfully Big Adventure

May edition of Cornwall Today - a piece about Himself....


Jonathan (Pip) Jackson has officially retired. But his life has always involved adventures, often at sea, or involving pubs and music. Now 68, he is still recovering from living ashore and being married.

He met his future wife (he calls her Flowerpot) 13 years ago. Pip was 56 to her 38 years and neither had been married or had children. But within 3 months she'd moved down to Cornwall. “I fell for her curls,” he says with a grin, “but I also wanted the adventure of being with a partner. I’d never had that before.”

Pip started his working life in London but soon decided that self employment was the way ahead. “My sister wanted me to join her in the States, but I’d always dreamt of coming to Cornwall.”

In 1960, at the age of 19, he became partner in a landscaping business, then bought a violet farm in Zelah. His brother joined him and they took over a local nursery, built a bungalow and opened a shop.

Four years later the Jackson brothers felt there was more money in speculative building, and started designing houses and landscaping the gardens. That proved profitable, but after a while Pip had wanderlust. “Sir Francis Chichester sailed round the world, followed by Robin Knox Johnston,” Pip says. “I was inspired to go sailing.”

Deciding that a working boat was suitable for cruising, in 1968 he bought St Meloris, a 28 foot wooden Falmouth oyster boat, and spent a year preparing her for sea. “There was a bet in the pub that I couldn’t sail a working boat across the Atlantic,” he recalls. “So I had to do it.” And he did, with no engine, no electrics and no experience of deep sea sailing. He did take rum, tobacco, a shotgun and two torches, one of which rusted, and the other fell overboard.

“I didn't have a radio so I pinched my brother’s Roberts radio. He’s never forgiven me,” Pip said ruefully, “and it didn’t even work at sea.”

In 1970 he left Mylor Harbour waved off by bemused family and friends, and set sail for the West Indies. 32 days later, having mended a broken mast, been becalmed, then involved in high storms, he arrived in Antigua. “I wanted to go to the Pacific, but my father was dying so I sold the boat and went home,” he says. “When word reached Mylor that I’d made it, everyone went to the pub and drank the money!”

Over the next twenty years, Pip set up numerous businesses with his brother, delivered yachts around America and in 1975, he designed and built Heritage, a 36 foot ocean going boat. But he needed money, and accepted a job in Turkey.

“I was asked to recover a British yacht found with a dead body on board,” he says nonchalantly. He ended up being chased up a river by Turkish villagers brandishing guns. “I was very frightened,” he said, “but I managed to head for sea and escaped.”

His next job involved working for a German millionaire. “He was a lovely villain but I dread to think what he was involved in,” Pip says. “I came home to sober up!”

Back home, Pip sold Heritage, made wooden model boats for the Greenwich Maritime Museum and started playing for the Quaker Hall Jazz Band.

“Playing cornet in a jazz band gives me the same adrenaline rush as sailing a well found yacht in robust conditions,” he explains. As a result, his next adventures were more sociable, and of a musical and alcoholic nature.

In 1991 the recession bit hard. But the Jackson Brothers set up a jewellery making business using tin from South Crofty, the last working mine in Cornwall. Two years later Pip fell in love with White Heather, a 32 foot working boat, and in 1994/5 he took time off to fulfil a long held ambition – to have a season oystering his own boat. “It’s physically very demanding - I lost three stone!” he says. “But I was proud to learn about this unique industry.”

In May 1996, Pip had another upheaval. “I met Flowerpot the month before mother died, and my whole life changed,” he says. Several years later, he sold his precious White Heather and married Flowerpot in Gibraltar.

So it seemed the adventurer was settling down. But Pip was diagnosed with prostate cancer, then pulmonary fibrosis. “It was a terrifying time,” says Flowerpot. “We had great support from our Oncology nurse, but the prognosis didn’t look good.”

Six months later, Pip's conditions were stabilised, and the Jackson Brothers decided to sell the tin business. Pip's next ideas were taken up by Trevor Baylis, the inventor famous for his wind-up radio. Unfortunately keeping up patents is an expensive business, and reluctantly the Jackson Brothers put that project to one side.

Now Pip’s retired he finds his days are fuller than ever. “I’ve started playing jazz again, and I'd love another boat,” he says. In the interim, he and Flowerpot have traded their car for a van so they can go exploring. “Life with Flowerpot is one big adventure!” Pip smiles. “I never know what’s going to happen next.”

Patrick Gale

First of all, today is St George's Day, Shakespeare's birthday and, most important of all, my mum's 80th birthday.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY MUM!!!

And now for all Patrick Gale fans, the following piece is in the May edition of Cornwall Today.

GARDENING, MUSIC AND OSTEOPOROSIS -
THE INSPIRATIONS FOR PATRICK GALE'S NEW NOVEL

Patrick Gale's novels cover topics that most writers steer clear of – Alzheimer's, bipolar disorder, Quakerism and gay love affairs, to name but a few. In his latest novel, The Whole Day Through, he writes about naturism, venereology and how to handle an ageing parent.

“I don't know why I include science or medicine in my books because I'm completely unscientific,” he says. “Perhaps it's an inferiority complex as my brother and sister are doctors!” In this novel, the mother is a naturist. “I needed a plot device that made it impossible to put the mother in a home,” he explains. “It also tallied with the emerging theme of honesty and vulnerability - when you take your clothes off you can't hide anything.”

Patrick lives near Land's End on a farm with his partner, Aidan, who drew beautiful illustrations for Patrick's novel, Friendly Fire. “He's horribly gifted!” Patrick says proudly. “I'd love to collaborate with him on future books, but publishers are unwilling to pay for anything extra which is such a pity. I think illustrations add to your pleasure of the book.”

Last year Richard & Judy's Book Club selected Notes from an Exhibition, gaining Patrick 100,000 new readers. “In a way it was like my first novel,” he says. But this has meant high expectations for his next novel. “I'm very worried about second album syndrome,” he says wryly.

Patrick describes The Whole Day Through as “a bittersweet love story. Several people said I couldn't do a Brief Encounter style story because of the therapy culture now that believes we have the right to be happy. I don't quite believe that, but my challenge was to come up with a story of two modern people who think they should do the right thing.”

What will strike a chord with many older readers is Laura, who looks after her 78 year old mother, riddled with osteoporosis. Patrick drew on his own experiences tending his mother after his father died. “What fascinates me is how our social behaviour is going to have to adapt. More and more single people are looking after elderly parents and also wanting a love life – how do they cope?”

The mother in this novel is a keen gardener; an interest that was passed on to Patrick from his own parents. “It's a visceral pleasure – weeding gives me an intense sense of calm and pleasure.” And of course, it's a good antidote to the solitary, sedentary and slow nature of writing. “With a pair of secateurs and a trowel you can make a difference in a few hours, whereas with a novel it takes much longer.”

Patrick is also a talented musician and chairman of the St Endellion Summer Festival, held annually in Port Isaac. He performs in amateur orchestras as a singer, pianist and cellist, and sings with the choir at the St Endellion festival, all of which takes up a lot of time, but is another necessity. “Music is like my life blood,” he says slowly. “I have a permanent soundtrack running through my head. It evokes expressions that are beyond words; it draws things out of you.”

Another vital part of Patrick's life is his adoptive Cornwall, but living on a farm, he is well aware of the real Cornwall. “It's been so mythologised and romanticised that it's fun to play with the gap between the romantic idea of it and the reality of it,” he explains. “On a practical level it's a very useful device – you can bring a Londoner to Cornwall and expose their follies.”

Patrick is clearly contented with his life, combining a mixture of writing, farming, music and gardening. “I come from a family of pessimists, but I've often thought that I'm a depressive with an optimist's habit,” he says with a smile. “If you're aware of the different sides to your personality you can see when one is getting the upper habit. Novelists get to know themselves very well – you don't need therapy!”

www.galewarning.org

Patrick will appear at the Du Maurier Festival on May 14th 2009
The Whole Day Through is published by Fourth Estate, May 2009
Gentleman's Relish will be published in December 2009

Patience

Patience is not a virtue of mine. I couldn't fish like this fellow - I'd be bored rigid and start fidgeting very quickly.

Right now I need patience. The gum infection I had months ago is still making me very tired on occasions, when I least expect it. I can be going along fine and then - bang - it's as if someone has pulled the plug on my energy and I have none. I feel weepy and useless; fed up with not having the energy that I've taken for granted all my life.

Then last night I met someone who's had the same thing - also following a gum infection. She advised more rest, not to push myself so much, eat well and gentle exercise. Most of which I do. She also suggested a tonic that had helped her. And knowing that she's much better now reassured me no end. I will get there!

There's so much I want to do, and not having the energy to do it is frustrating.
But until I improve, I must rest sometimes, when I want to be writing; lie down when I want to be having a five mile hike. I must learn how to relax more and enjoy it - after all, I must remember, as writers we're always writing even when we're not.

But if you can, send a little patience my way!