Ways With Words

Une Mauvaise Surprise – But Many Bonnes Surprises Too

When you buy a house in France you find that there are often many depondances which are une surprise – usually pleasant ones. We didn’t really need a piggery, derelict cottage, a hen house and a huge barn but they felt like added value. Sadly our huge beautiful barn needed much work and money to keep it standing – not such good value. A conservationist re-tiled the roof (a jobbing builder would have been OK but our French didn’t run to jobbing builder so we spent a lot of money but now have an impressive roof done in old tiles).The same conservationist told us the back wall needed rebuilding before he could finish the roof. Barns are like cars, conservationists like mechanics; how could we argue when we know nothing? So work started on the massive back wall. Our old Devon friends, Mike and Lesley who now live in France, emailed us photos of the new wall and reported it was magnificent. Then followed more news: the new wall had fallen down. Our conservationist emailed too,‘This is bad for you and bad for me’. Particularly bad for us as he wanted lots more money.

 

Ohh La La!

When we arrived in France for our writing and art courses half the wall had gone up again. Our neighbours were full of stories of the collapse. "It was like 9/11" they told us. I was glad to learn they meant the noise and the dust from the rubble; the workmen had escaped without injury. JC, Jean-Claude the conservationist, came to discuss the mauvaise surprise. Fortunately Will Randall, our writing tutor, speaks fluent and fast French so offered to translate. He was brilliant at communicating and arguing but for the sake of entente cordiale and getting the job finished properly we agreed it had been une mauvaise surprise and we agreed to pay up.

However it is an ill wind ...and we all thought Une Mauvaise Surprise would be a good subject for a writing exercise.

The Bonnes Surprises came on the final day of the course. Under Rosemary Catling’s gentle tutoring the artists produced an impressive Private View. Our water jug, the almost-black geranium, the beams in the préau and the full moon (together with Howard Hodgkins and Francis Bacon) had inspired an amazing range of work and we felt we’d brought Tate Modern as well as 9/11 to sleepy little Leygonie. 
Will did a wine tasting amongst the paintings and got us all in pairs to articulate our criticism of local wines. I’ll remember his advice in future: “you can’t go wrong with a Côte du Rhone.”

The writers each read a favourite piece of work from the week except Boris who had written a short and witty play inspired by Wagner’s death which Steve and Will acted. This involved an improvised gondola and Steve singing arias. Very entertaining – as were all the contributions. Rona’s painting of the water jug had inspired an impressive poem from Pam which closed the event.

We packed in the film Couscous, a competitive game of boules and a leisurely last dinner together with a big log fire and candles for ambience.

It’s sad to say Au Revoir but it was just that as we know many will return to Leygonie for more Bonnes Surprises.

 

 

 

 

 

You Have Heard of The Booker – But Now Turn Your Attention to The Benson.

I check my emails quickly and infrequently in France, partly because England feels so far away – like my troubles – and I don’t want to be distracted from the sun, the wine, the cheese, the meadow and all the pleasures of this bit of the Dordogne. Also I don’t want to spend too long sitting in front of the computer because I like having a drink in the courtyard with the participants on the course. People mean conversation and as soon as we sit down to eat we start discussing all those topics people say you should avoid: religion, politics, education, art, literature. It can get heated but usually/always remains amicable. Will Randall – our writing tutor who lives in the Loire valley - said that the conversations are more typical of France than England. Our stereotypical view of France is one of a nation of artists, philosophers and intellectuals so we feel rather smug.

However back to The Benson. When I had a cursory look at my emails between discussions on the European elections and a swim in the pool I saw one which said that The Royal Society of Literature had unanimously decided to offer me a Benson Medal in respect of my outstanding contribution to literature and books. I have several friends who like playing tricks so my first reaction was to try to decide which joker had sent it. What do you do in this situation? Google of course. If someone was joking it was rather elaborate. The medal was said to have been instituted in 1916 by A.C. Benson, a writer, academic and Fellow of the Society. Better still the list of previous recipients made me glow with uncool pride: Lytton Strachey, J.R.R. Tolkein, Maureen Duffy, Anthony Burgess and many other distinguished writers including a real favourite of mine – Ronald Blyth.

At this point I accepted with puffed out chest. As the participants on the course feel so kindly towards Ways With Words and us it felt only right to tell them as you would parents who would want to know and would excuse your boasting. So I did. Well Steve banged for silence at lunch time and made an announcement. They said the right things and raised glasses of our local Bergerac wine. Will said it sounded better if we referred to it as The Benson rather than The Benson Medal. So if you see someone shopping in Safeway or Leclerc wearing a medal of 3” diameter in solid silver do come up to me and say can I admire your Benson.

The Benson Medalist tends her herbs.

The Fruits of France – Coping with Surfeits

Bowls of cherries from our next door neighbours' trees keep arriving. I never thought you could have a surfeit of cherries. But France is a place for surfeits. We have just returned from Ribérac market where I was tempted by trays of apricots, peaches, peppers, courgettes and aubergines but despite having a crowd of hungry artists and writers on our course there is a limit to what they can be tempted to consume. I keep presenting jugs of homemade lemonade and elderflower cordial and honey cake made with honey from our neighbours’ bees. If our customers don’t eat and drink more I shall have to throw food away. Can’t do that! I’ll just have to eat lots myself and endure a surfeit of flesh.

We have no problems with the surfeit of creativity though. Paintings of jugs, lilies and fields are festooning our barn. A full length mirror is propped against the wall and someone is examining herself (fully clothed I should add) for a large Francis Bacon style self portrait. Rosemary (Catling) the art tutor, showed slides of her work: many lonely figures in large landscapes and figures jumping into space – or water. She explained that her work reflects her concerns for the future of her grandchildren. As I suspected having grandchildren means I shall have yet more worries to try and control. There is probably a tipping point after which the anxieties can’t be contained. I shall find out whether I have reached that point next August when my daughter’s baby is born.

While the artists are applying colour the writers are expanding nursery rhymes into short stories written in a particular genre. So Jack and Jill may become a horror story, Humpty Dumpty a detective story. Will (Randall) our writing tutor has been looking at short stories with the group. Someone flung a book of short stories across the table and said that she hated the writer. Any guesses who the despised author may be?

We are always amazed at the excess of creativity hovering within each person. Most of it is suppressed while everyday life is lived, but give someone a peaceful meadow, sunshine, elderflower cordial (or better still Bordeaux wine), encouraging tutors and time away from the common task and there’s a positive Chelsea Flower Show of creative expression.

Surfeits are usually welcome. An abundance of fruit and vegetables is heart warming, a plethora of paintings is inspiring – and you can never have too many words – nor grandchildren, though this may lead to an unwelcome surfeit of anxiety. If so I shall have to do what Rosemary does and transform the worries into works of art. It’s time to go on a Ways With Words holiday course.

For those who want to release their suppressed creativity, or control their anxieties, there are more Ways With Words Holiday courses this year:
Memoir Writing in the Dordogne, 9-13 September
Painting, writing, book groups and philosophy in Umbria, Italy 26 September - 3 October, 3-10 October.

Waiting For Customers

Like Estragon and Vladimir, Steve and myself have been waiting. We too have talked a lot about the arrival. But for us it is of our course members and unlike Godot we know for certain they will arrive and then the play will begin. Also our waiting has been a busy, active time, more action than talk in fact. We arrived at our French house just a week ago and the last week has been been getting the set ready in preparation for our writing and art courses. This means many trips to Leclerc and trolleys filled with wine, cheese, coffee, yoghurts etc. The garden pots are filled with geraniums. The rosemary and lavender are trimmed and watered. We try out the swimming pool; we get out the Penguin deckchairs; we prune the bay and we warn our French neighbours that the English are about to arrive. Happily we watch where the shadows fall in the courtyard to note cool areas for sitting to paint and write.

The house sparkles – as much as an old farmhouse in France can sparkle. Old, stone shutters and big fireplaces are by their nature dusty but hey ho it’s French dust so that’s alright. Last night I mopped the tiles in the kitchen as we backed out to go to bed. I greatly enjoyed seeing the white tiles come whiter and the black blacker. It was a D. H. Lawrence moment; he loved sweeping floors.

How awful if our course participants did a Godot on us. We would have to drink all the wine ourselves. Meanwhile we lie on the reclining chairs under the walnut trees, start on the wine, and wait.