Method writing
It’s all very well setting my new book in the Lake District, but having left the godforsaken county as soon as I possibly could, I actually have very little memory of it. So this week I hopped on the train to Penrith to do a bit of research.
This involved feeding my parents copious quantities of wine and grilling them on farming techniques in the 1970s (checking sheep for foot-rot and maggots and cutting off lamb’s testicles, anyone?), listening to a radio programme about my father called From Pythagoras to Pigs (cue Dad clipping piglets’ teeth and merrily commenting ‘I don’t think animals feel pain’ to a background of furious squealing) and looking through the family albums for pictures of agricultural implements and myself aged ten.
I took a trip back to the ancestral family farm.
Spent an hour or so with my godson Billy, climbing trees.
And then set off on an excursion. My hero lives in an old sheep hut on a mountainside so I decided to take a tent up to the top of the fell in order to experience true solitude and find out what noises you might hear in the middle of the night.
Rucksack firmly strapped to my back, I climbed the fell, sweating lightly and bashing my way through the bracken. Within an hour and a half, I was at the top, looking down on Blea Tarn. The last time I was there was aged 16 with my friend Eddie with a bottle of vodka and twenty Marlboro Lights. This time it was just me, a bottle of Evian and an egg sandwich. Times have changed, indeed.
I put the tent up in record time, then kicked off my shoes and went wading into the lake to gather stones to put around a fire. Collected sticks from the old hawthorn bushes on the other side of the mountain, built my fire and sat next to it, watching the sun going down, munching on my sandwich and congratulating myself on marvellous Scoutish preparedness and survival technique.
Then realised I had forgotten to bring a pen and so had to make all my notes by writing laborious texts on my phone and saving them to drafts.
My hero also is an insomniac and spend his nights wandering over the fells, so at around 9 o’clock I went over to the other side of the lake in search of all-time Tot favourite animal, the badger. Sitting up-wind of the setts that have been there as long as I can remember, imagine my delight when, after about an hour, Big Mama Badger and her baby badgers came snuffling out of their hole. They frolicked around for a bit, then went off in search of food. I sat there for a bit longer, looking over the lake, and feeling enormously pleased.
Back in the tent, I got into my sleeping bag and read a bit more of Ray Monk’s biography of Wittgenstein. Empathised with his need to remove himself from the object of his desire in order to achieve in logic. Wondered if I too was a misunderstood genius who must disdain true love in favour of my art. As my torch began to dim, quite overcome with feelings of loss, loneliness and despair, I tapped it against the ground. The fire was gone now, and I was horribly cold. Coughing piteously in my wretched tent, I closed my eyes and wondered how long is a day in the dark...
This involved feeding my parents copious quantities of wine and grilling them on farming techniques in the 1970s (checking sheep for foot-rot and maggots and cutting off lamb’s testicles, anyone?), listening to a radio programme about my father called From Pythagoras to Pigs (cue Dad clipping piglets’ teeth and merrily commenting ‘I don’t think animals feel pain’ to a background of furious squealing) and looking through the family albums for pictures of agricultural implements and myself aged ten.
I took a trip back to the ancestral family farm.
Spent an hour or so with my godson Billy, climbing trees.
And then set off on an excursion. My hero lives in an old sheep hut on a mountainside so I decided to take a tent up to the top of the fell in order to experience true solitude and find out what noises you might hear in the middle of the night.
Rucksack firmly strapped to my back, I climbed the fell, sweating lightly and bashing my way through the bracken. Within an hour and a half, I was at the top, looking down on Blea Tarn. The last time I was there was aged 16 with my friend Eddie with a bottle of vodka and twenty Marlboro Lights. This time it was just me, a bottle of Evian and an egg sandwich. Times have changed, indeed.
I put the tent up in record time, then kicked off my shoes and went wading into the lake to gather stones to put around a fire. Collected sticks from the old hawthorn bushes on the other side of the mountain, built my fire and sat next to it, watching the sun going down, munching on my sandwich and congratulating myself on marvellous Scoutish preparedness and survival technique.
Then realised I had forgotten to bring a pen and so had to make all my notes by writing laborious texts on my phone and saving them to drafts.
My hero also is an insomniac and spend his nights wandering over the fells, so at around 9 o’clock I went over to the other side of the lake in search of all-time Tot favourite animal, the badger. Sitting up-wind of the setts that have been there as long as I can remember, imagine my delight when, after about an hour, Big Mama Badger and her baby badgers came snuffling out of their hole. They frolicked around for a bit, then went off in search of food. I sat there for a bit longer, looking over the lake, and feeling enormously pleased.
Back in the tent, I got into my sleeping bag and read a bit more of Ray Monk’s biography of Wittgenstein. Empathised with his need to remove himself from the object of his desire in order to achieve in logic. Wondered if I too was a misunderstood genius who must disdain true love in favour of my art. As my torch began to dim, quite overcome with feelings of loss, loneliness and despair, I tapped it against the ground. The fire was gone now, and I was horribly cold. Coughing piteously in my wretched tent, I closed my eyes and wondered how long is a day in the dark...
posted by Lady V at 5:13 pm
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