I'm going to Devon
Dear ones,
I have given myself a present. Tomorrow, if all is well, I will wave goodbye to my husband and to my three-year-old son who I’ve thus far never been apart from for more than 24 hours. I will get on a train and go to a farmhouse in Devon where a lovely and inspirational woman called Charlie will cook meals and bake cakes for me and other writers. I will spend seven days working on a manuscript. I will say hello to the goats and the ducks in the garden. I will go for walks. And my whole body tingles with excitement. I’m doing this for me, just for me.
It feels huge.
I know I will miss my son and my husband when I’m there. I will probably even cry. I might sleep quite badly the first few nights. I will feel a bit of guilt because mothers are not supposed to do these sort of things.
But the sneaky, slightly guilty joy it gives me to do something like this, something almost a bit naughty, to sneak away to the countryside for a week to write! Oh my god!
I will let you know how I’m getting on on next week’s letter.
Ps. Yesterday I walked to the forest again and hugged my tree (it’s always the same tree). A dog walker trotted by, not once, but twice! I looked her in the eyes and said “hello, I’m just meditating”. She smiled back. Perhaps this new habit of mine is slightly less embarrassing than I think.
– Picture from a trip to the writing house in Devon a few years ago.