Lynn Farley-Rose's Blog

It’s a couple of months since I finished How I Learned to Stop Saluting Magpies and I’ve taken a break over the summer to mull over a new writing project and recharge my batteries. But it’s September now and I’m keen to get started.

As this next idea is different from what I’ve done before,  I’ve found myself searching around for ways to approach it, and one strategy has been to turn at last to a book that’s been sitting on my desk for several years. The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron was written in 1992 and comes highly recommended. Millions of people have done this 12-week programme that claims to help you discover and recover your creative self, whether that’s writing, painting, music, acting, photography, needlework, gardening or any of the multitude of other ways that humans express themselves and explore ideas.  

I read the introductory chapters of the book and although I couldn’t connect with everything the author was saying, I decided to try using the two key tools that she advocates and to see what happened. The first one – writing morning pages – requires you to fill three A4 pages at the start of each day. Just free flow writing about whatever comes into your head. I’ve now been doing that for two weeks and it’s been remarkably helpful and productive because once I’ve had a moan about who has annoyed me, and which bit of me is aching today, I’ve usually only filled half a page. It’s then that I start unpacking ideas, often surprising and random, and I can only be grateful and wonder where on earth they’ve come from.   

The other tool is to have an Artist Date once a week. This is when you set aside some time, perhaps two hours, for doing something that nurtures you. Julia Cameron describes it as an excursion or a play date that you preplan and the crucial thing is that you must do it on your own. ‘Resist all interlopers’ she instructs firmly.

Week One – and as I needed to be in Winchester for a meeting on Friday morning, I decided that my inaugural Artist Date would be to take myself out for lunch and to order something that I wouldn’t normally eat. 

I chose a French restaurant in the centre of town and when I entered, the waiter smiled expectantly. ‘What time is your reservation?’ he asked. I didn’t have one, and he looked dubious. Then he said, ‘I think we can squeeze you in,’ and took me to a small table by the window. It was perfect for dining alone and I settled down to read the menu. I’ve always been suspicious of mussels and so I challenged myself and ordered moules marinière. Frites might be the traditional accompaniment but as I don’t eat potatoes, I ordered bread and a green salad. A succession of servers arrived, each with a different job and a big smile, bringing sparkling water, a finger bowl, and a large empty dish for depositing the shells. Then eventually one of them placed a large plate of steaming mussels in front of me, adorned with finely chopped parsley and smelling of the sea. I took a slow breath in to savour the moment and as I took my first taste, I gave a spontaneous groan of pleasure and was grateful that the adjacent table was still empty. The salad came with small chunks of luscious avocado and a sharp, lemony vinaigrette and the bread was so good that it could have been baked in France that morning. It was the perfect dish for a solo lunch as each mussel has to be attended to individually and so you have no option but to eat slowly.  

I listened to the happy buzz of smartly-dressed Winchester ladies, out for lunch in twos and threes, and when all the shells had been transferred to the debris dish and I’d had enough bread, there was still plenty of the delicious creamy, briny juice. So I asked for a soup spoon. I finished up with a café gourmand – an excellent coffee with three mini-desserts. The only downside was lingering a little too long and having to run to the bus stop. Not comfortable after a good lunch.

I went home feeling thoroughly contented though still not quite sure why these dates might be good for me. But when I woke up the next morning I had a moment of clarity. I realised that during that lunch I’d felt fully alive – in a very different way from if I’d been chatting with someone because I’d paid attention to everything. The tastes, the smells, the service, the surroundings. Which is not only life-enhancing but helps to set off thoughts that feed creativity. I deemed it a success and started wondering what I might do in Week 2.

As it happened, I had to go to London on Friday and decided that when I’d finished, I would take advantage of the late opening at the National Portrait Gallery. I imagined myself wandering around contemplative and serene, as I got acquainted with some of the 11,000 Britons on the walls. 

Unfortunately I cut things a bit fine – when I got to my local station, the train was already in, and as I dashed onto the platform, the doors slid shut. I stood helplessly while it waited the standard humiliating thirty seconds and then glided off without me. This was going to mess up my commitments for the first part of the day, so I gave up on those and went back home to reconsider my Artist Date. 

‘I know,’ I thought. ‘I’ll take the Number 1 bus from the top of my road and that will drop me near Shawford.’ The village railway station has a cafe that’s been rescued and restored by a local heritage project and I’m curious to see it. I set off for the bus stop, imagining myself relaxing in charming surroundings with coffee, delicious cake and a book. Not quite as exciting as wandering around a London gallery after dark but after all, Artist Dates don’t need to be fancy. In fact I guess it’s important that they are not all fancy, otherwise they’d be both demanding and expensive. 

After my earlier public transport mishap I left plenty of time for the walk to the bus stop. But as I neared the top of the hill and the main road, I spotted a Number 1 bus whizzing past. It was followed shortly by another one. That didn’t bode at all well. They clearly weren’t running according to the timetable but I was determined to stay optimistic so I carried on to the bus stop and stood there patiently. Fifteen minutes passed and then I managed to get onto the website which informed me that the next Number 1 bus would be along in twenty-three minutes. By then I’d had enough of waiting so I had a rapid rethink and came up with Plan C. I’d downgrade yet again and walk to Costa Coffee on the nearby university campus. It should be quiet as the students were still on vacation. I set off briskly along The Avenue and three minutes after leaving the bus stop, a Number 1 rumbled past. It was followed two minutes later by another one. Maybe I was imagining it but as I walked along the road looking miserable and getting wet – because by now it was raining – the passengers on the lower deck looked particularly happy and pleased with themselves. 

A hundred yards past the next bus stop I spotted a blue double-decker in the distance, travelling in my direction. Another rapid change of plan. It was not too late to revert to Plan B so I started running as fast as I could back to the bus stop. As I got there, panting, the bus approached and I saw that it said Not in Service. That’s an awful lot of public transport misfortune for one day but I promise, dear reader, that I would not lie to you.  

In the end, I did walk to the campus Costa and spent a pleasant hour reading a novel that transported me to the 1930s and the mountains of Kentucky. All whilst nursing a latte and a slice of lemon drizzle cake. It wasn’t quite the date I’d planned but I wouldn’t normally have set aside that amount of time during the day just for myself, so it was worthwhile. We all know that dating is a risky and uncertain business and it seems that’s true even when you’re dating yourself. I’ve got another ten weeks of Artist Dates to go – I’ll let you know how I get on. 

Hurray! It’s finished. 

This week I took delivery of the first copy of my book – How I Learned to Stop Saluting Magpies. After all the work and glitches, it’s thrilling to see it in its completed state. Jo Dalton has come up with a beautiful cover and Dawn Black the interior designer has also added a touch of magic. I’m grateful to them both. These have been very happy collaborations after months of working on my own to shape the story and the ideas, as faithfully and curiously as I can. 

Along the way, I’ve read dozens – perhaps hundreds – of books as I’ve explored an eclectic set of topics – from flamingoes to Russian history, via Jane Austen, fish, classic films, superstition, trains, Japanese culture, forgiveness, slow living, anxiety, painting, long-distance walks and a mysterious grandmother. And much more. Like I said, it’s eclectic. 

It takes — at least it’s taken me — a long time to get from the initial concept to the final product. Somewhere between four and five years. I can’t be sure of the exact date but know I was walking on the Cornish cliffs when the idea for it suddenly came into my head. It blew in with the wind like Mary Poppins, and then it wouldn’t leave me alone.  It’s a sequel to my first book 31 Treats And A Marriage but with quite a different slant.

I nearly gave up several times. When my laptop was stolen from a train somewhere between Amsterdam and Berlin, I lost my research notes. I use a writing tool called Scrivener and thought everything was being automatically backed up, as that was how I’d set it up. Turns out it wasn’t. Something very odd had happened and no-one could work out what had gone wrong. The helpful people at Scrivener did their best but were mystified. Thousands of words and months of work – all gone. I nearly gave up then. But I bought a new computer, took a deep breath, drank lots of coffee and started up again. 

Then there was the period of creative block when out of the blue I simply lost the desire to write. It was frustrating and perplexing and I wrote about it here. That was when I learned that we all need seven different kinds of rest, and I was due for some creative rest. Thankfully, after about four months, I re-engaged with the writing process and learned to love it again. 

There is joy in completing this book but also sadness. My dear friend Anne Stanton was always so encouraging of my writing, and made such thoughtful comments about my previous books. She was often in my mind while I was writing, but she will never get to read this one, as she died of bone cancer in November last year. Similarly, Chris Harris — a wonderful man who was so well-read but made time to read my books, and to comment so intelligently on them. He died in January. I miss them both.

If you would like to find out how I learned to stop saluting magpies, and why it was so necessary, then the book is available in both paperback and Kindle versions. It takes a while for publishers’ details to appear on some websites so don’t be put off if you see an ‘out of stock’ message — it’s currently listed by Blackwell’s and Amazon but should be available to order through all good bookshops. If you read it, I would be thrilled if you find something interesting, something useful, and something that makes you laugh out loud. Something, too, that prompts a conversation. Preferably lively. And if you like it, please do consider leaving a review — it makes a big difference.

And now the moment has come…

You’ve been a long time in the making, little Magpie. It was just the two of us for those years—quiet hours, exploration, the slow shaping of something uncertain—and although I could never be confident that you would find your way out of my imagination, you have. It’s been such a rich experience and I will miss you. But nothing lasts forever, and now that I can hold you, it’s time to set you free. Flap your wings. Spread them wide. You’re ready to fly.

How I Learned to Stop Saluting Magpies: A Lifeline List and Letting Go of Fear. 2025. Esmeralda Publishing. ISBN 978-0-9934711-2-4

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Last weekend we were in the French Pyrenees. Mike had spent four days on a photography holiday with friends in the beautiful old town of Villefranche-de-Conflent, and I tagged along, enjoying the socialising, scenery, and delicious food while making final edits to my new book. On Sunday morning we said a fond farewell to our friends and set off on the Petit Train Jaune for a few days on our own in the village of Enveitg at the end of the line. The three-hour ride through the mountains was breathtaking. 

We arrived at lunchtime, dropped our bags at the Airbnb apartment and walked to the one and only local restaurant where we enjoyed an elegant salad, lasagne and tarte Tatin—my favourite pudding. After a good lunch it was tempting to have a nap but it seemed a shame to miss out on the stunning scenery and warm weather, so with the nearest town only a few kilometres across the border in Spain we decided to take a stroll. There was plenty to look at. We passed huge auburn cows with bells round their necks, constantly clanging like a call to prayer, and delicate calves soaking up the sunshine. In the background were great mountains with residual snow, and bare ski runs gashing the slopes like scars. As we walked, the small town of Puigcerdà came into view, perched like a hill fort to our left, with houses in shades of yellow, ochre and brick red. At some point we must have crossed the border. There was no obvious sign but the linguistic clues were there. A board by the side of the railway line was in Spanish on one side and French on the other. And as we went further there were fewer Bonjours and more Holas.  

When we arrived in Puigcerdà we explored the winding streets—languid in the Sunday afternoon heat— and cooled off with drinks at a bar in the main square. Then we took the free funicular that connects the upper town to the lower level. There, we bought some groceries at a convenience store where the owner was keen to practise his English. He told us about his love of cricket and gave us a bottle of pink Powerade as a gesture of international friendship. 

It had all been so pleasant that the following morning we decided to revisit Puigcerdà—this time so that Mike could put his new photographic skills to use. It was late morning when we arrived and we sat at a cafe looking out over a lake with a border of black poplars, and watching the waterfowl engage in noisy, splashy squabbles. At about 12.45, Mike went to the counter to pay for our drinks but he came back looking worried. “The waiter says there’s a problem with electricity…the whole country is cut off.” 

“It can’t be,” I said. “That sounds ridiculous.” And then I remembered how we’d not been able to make contactless payments in a London branch of Marks and Spencer the previous week. That was when it started to feel strange and sinister. How could the whole country be affected? Was it a deliberate attack? Like those that had paralysed Marks and Spencer, the British Museum, the NHS, and Transport for London, to name a few. Fortunately our phones were still working and the main thing I wanted was to connect with family so we messaged them, and they knew nothing about it. But gradually as we checked in with trusted news sources—The BBC and the Guardian—reports started to come through. They too, sounded like they could hardly credit it. “We are getting reports of…” And then it emerged that not only was the whole of Spain affected but so was Portugal. Parts of France too, and Andorra. 

Neither of us speak Spanish so we had to watch carefully, and try to interpret cues from the people around us. I nudged Mike when I spotted a woman dashing along carrying a large pack of bottled water, and pushing a toddler in a buggy. She looked purposeful—as if she needed to get home as soon as possible. Then I saw another and another. All with the telltale packs of water. We passed a grocery store but it was a dark cave with a worker guarding the entrance and telling hopeful customers that it was cash or nothing. 

We had some euros with us which was lucky as the ATM screens were all blank, and already banks were closed, with hastily written notices taped to the windows. By this time it was about half-past one and we were getting hungry. We spotted a pizza restaurant with big glass windows and I had a rush of optimism when I saw people eating inside. Perhaps the crisis had been resolved. But as we approached I saw a waitress standing in the doorway and gesturing to a small group of people that they were about to close. We walked a bit further and a white van went past. I noticed that it said Ingeniero de ascensores and worked out that it must be a lift engineer. My first thought was that they were on their way home for lunch and possibly a siesta. Then with a jolt, I realised it was more likely that they were off to rescue someone stuck in a lift. Or the funicular we had taken yesterday.

We walked on and came to an organic cafe. The server looked harassed but smiled and said we could have a salad. No coffee of course. And while we were waiting for our food, we got into conversation with a sharply-dressed local man who spoke good English. “It’s a cyberattack,” he said. “Definitely. Nothing like this has ever happened before.” Then he added, “The internet will stop working soon. And then we will all be dead.” He made a cutting gesture across his throat, and looked remarkably cheerful.

After lunch, we decided to give up on our Spanish jaunt and walk back to Enveitg. Perhaps things would be better across the border. As we made our way out of Puigcerdà, the streets were deserted. The green cross pharmacy signs, ubiquitous across Europe, had lost their comforting illumination and the petrol station at the end of the street had shut down. What would happen when people ran out of petrol? Then Mike looked at his phone. “I’ve lost the internet,” he said and an image of the young man with his doomy gesture passed through my mind. 

It was just a few kilometres back to our village but what a difference that invisible border made. Our internet connections returned almost immediately and we saw lights inside buildings. All seemed normal at our apartment and we needed the reassurance of the familiar, so the first thing we did was to make a cup of tea. As we were drinking it and mulling over the day’s events, our host stopped by. She works at a hospital across the border and told us that generators had kept emergency services going. Then she said, “It’s not just Spain and Portugal, you know. It’s affected Germany. Sweden too.’’ Misinformation spreads fast.

What can’t be disputed is that this was Europe’s biggest blackout for twenty years. Inevitably it takes time to diagnose complex problems in a complex infrastructure system and so far there has been no consensus about the cause. Initially the Portuguese authorities blamed extreme weather in Spain but later the Spanish met office reported that there had been no unusual temperatures. Most reports now suggest it was a ‘Black Swan event’ when a variety of unlikely things happen at the same time, thereby setting a cascade of failure in motion.  

We’re home now but the experience has given me pause for thought. Since the pandemic, I rarely carry cash and I try to use up what’s in the food cupboard, so supplies tend to be low. After all, you can always go shopping, or order on the internet… 

When I read, earlier this year, that the EU was advising its citizens to keep a stock of food, water and medicines—enough to last at least 72 hours—it seemed dramatic and guaranteed to cause anxiety. They named a range of potential emergencies including war, floods, fire, pandemics, and cyberattacks, and talked of the need to develop a ‘preparedness mindset.’ 

On this occasion, the young man in Puigcerdà was probably wrong in assuming malevolent causes, but we know attacks happen, and it’s disturbing how long it’s taking for Marks and Spencer to recover. When we arrived back at St Pancras station ten days after the initial problem, and in travel-worn need of a sandwich or a salad, the shelves at M&S were bare. That cyberattack came out of the blue and so did the blackout. I’m going to stock up on food, water and medicines, as suggested, and also keep some cash. The advice to put together an emergency kit of torch, batteries, first-aid and a wind-up radio seems rather more urgent than it did a week ago.  

Overwhelmed. Frustrated. Angry. Impotent. These are words we hear a lot these days. And on the flip side, since November’s US election results I’ve heard many ordinary people say that even if we can’t influence the big picture, we can make a difference in our own sphere. On the one hand that sounds so trite that I hesitate to repeat it, but on the other I know that in the absence of much else, it is advice worth acting on. Smile. Make time for people. Tell service workers when they’ve done a good job… All suggestions gratefully received in the comments section below. 

As a mindset, it’s one way to cope. And we need plenty of those. My keystone is a daily walk. Preferably in the woods amongst trees but I’m happy, too, on suburban streets when a local errand transforms into vital exercise and calming headspace. Whether I’m tuning into birdsong or an audiobook it’s an important component of my day, and sanity. But recently, I’ve been increasingly distracted and saddened by rubbish. It’s everywhere. From amongst the nourishing natural order of leaf mould, fallen twigs and daffodil buds, loom lurid assaults from discarded Red Bull cans, greasy fish and chip papers, foil chocolate wrappers, and plastic Burger King milkshake beakers—still with the straws stuck in them. I try not to notice. But the idea of people casually discarding their rubbish is upsetting. Many years ago, when I lived in London I was walking past a queue of cars when a driver wound down his window and threw his empty fag packet in my direction. Wordlessly, I picked it up and dropped it on his lap. ‘I pay my council tax,’ he growled and chucked it out again. 

I often think about the comedian David Sedaris who has become obsessed with litter picking in the West Sussex village where he lives. He’s so well-know for it that the local council have named a bin lorry in his honour. On the side are the words, Thanks David for helping to keep the area clean. “You can tell where my territory ends and the rest of England begins,” he says. “It’s like going from the rose arbor in Sissinghurst to Fukushima after the tsunami.” I admire what he does. But have to wonder—what kind of a mug picks up other people’s rubbish? 

Then last month, I was chatting with my friend Felice. Like David Sedaris she is originally American but has lived here for many years. She always makes me think. We were talking about the state of the world and how I feel impotent. “We have to hold our commitment to our values,” she said. “No-one else can do that for us.” Afterwards, one thought led to another and so it was that last Monday I found myself going out for my usual walk, armed with a bin bag, sturdy gloves, hand sanitiser, and my brand new litter grabber, bought online from the Helping Hands Environmental Company.  I was nervous and sure that people would think I was weird. But that’s irrational. As David Sedaris says, “How is it fair that the person who rips a lottery ticket into 16 pieces and throws it on the ground isn’t crazy, but the guy who picks it up, is?”

It turned out to be surprisingly satisfying. The litter grabber is light and impressively dextrous, capable of grasping everything from a cigarette stub to a large plastic bottle, so there’s no need to come into personal contact with anything. I walked through my local woods and deposited all kinds of things in my sack, many of which looked like they’d been there some time. My walk back along the same route, was delightfully litter-free.

The next few days were very wet, so although I walked, I didn’t do any more litter picking. Then on Friday, I was driving to London for a family birthday and feeling cheerful. Cheerful, that was until I noticed the astonishing amount of rubbish along the side of the dual carriageway. It was immensely depressing and once I’d started seeing it, I couldn’t stop. It was a reminder that I am inclined to obsessiveness, and have to find a way to stop feeling overwhelmed. 

Yesterday, I came up with a better strategy. I know that all I can do is nibble away at it. So I’m limiting my litter-picking forays to one defined street or stretch of woods per session, and once that is done then I stop. It’s tempting to carry on. But there will always be more. I have to be pleased for what I do make better, not upset about what I can’t. Nor do I collect so much that it becomes heavy and uncomfortable to carry. I still want to get the benefits of my walk. And when I’m not actively in litter-picking mode I deliberately focus on the sky or the boughs of the trees rather than the ground. I know that most people feel like me, and don’t drop rubbish but in the same way that there will always be humans with horrible political values, there will always be thoughtless ones. I know that I have to accept these facts, even though I don’t like them, otherwise they will drive me crazy.  

So far I’ve only been out on my own but the Keep Britain Tidy website is full of helpful advice and information about local litter picking groups and anti-litter campaigns. I might join one of these groups. It would be sociable and I could help to tackle some of the worst areas where individually I can’t make much impact. Seeing groups tidying up the environment must also surely have some effect in changing people’s litter dropping tendencies.

Ways to cope… For now, litter-picking is one of mine. It’s a reminder that we can’t take on all problems but something is better than nothing. It’s a small act of resistance. And given the state of world politics with so much being trashed, the analogy seems rather apt.  

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Happy New Year—

Back so soon and once again here I am, trying to ignore the ingrained feeling that I should think about the year ahead and make some resolutions. 

I’ve posted before about how I used to come up with eighteen resolutions every New Year’s Eve. Three in each of six different categories. I know… it’s embarrassing! My only defence is that it gave me a purposeful glow and for those few hours each year I felt in control of my life. 

Then two years ago I wrote that I had at last recognised the folly of all those broken promises to myself and was planning instead to focus on a couple of themes for the coming year. Balance maybe. Nuance? Trains? Being kinder? All flexible and open to interpretation. But I quickly realised that even this tame affair was too controlled. So I decided I would just get on with trying to enjoy things for their own sake. No goals. 

As an approach it’s gone quite well and I’ve managed not to make any New Year resolutions for some time now. It’s a kind of anti-achievement. Nonetheless however much I try to eschew the idea of commitments the start of a fresh new year does feel symbolic. It’s an opportunity for something. So this January I’ve turned my previous habits upside-down and instead of thinking about the year ahead, I’ve thought back over the past year. Rather than making it about what I want to do, it’s about what I’ve done. Given the speed with which past resolutions have crumbled and got forgotten, it’s vastly more reliable. It’s interesting, too, because there’s an element of surprise. 

Last year brought quite a few things that evolved without much planning, and which turned out to be enjoyable and worthwhile. I visited new places, read satisfying books, spent happy times with friends and family, and did some more coastal walking. Those things were all individual events but meanwhile behind the scenes other less definable, diffuse goings-on were having a significant impact. Two in particular, were important although they would never have made it onto my resolutions list because I wasn’t aware of their value until I lived them. 

One was discovering that I don’t care what other people think, anything like as much as I used to. I don’t know how that happened. But it did. I became aware of it earlier in the year when I had to give a talk and realised that for the first time ever, I didn’t feel tortured by self-doubt. I gave it my best and hoped that some people would like it and find it interesting. But I also knew there was a chance that some people would find it boring or even irritating. It’s just the way it is. You can’t please all the people all the time. I’ve got a friend who says she can’t stand David Attenborough. Yes, David Attenborough. Even Jane Austen—St Jane— hasn’t captured all hearts. Mark Twain thought her “…entirely impossible. It seems a great pity to me that they allowed her to die a natural death. Every time I read Pride and Prejudice I want to dig her up and hit her over the skull with her own shinbone.”  

The development of my insouciance has been invisible to all but me but it has had a physical manifestation—it’s coincided with a change of hairstyle. For my entire adult life, I’ve peered out through a fringe and much of my face has been hidden behind it. My forehead has not been seen for decades but earlier this year, quite out of the blue, I decided that I’m through with that. I want to look at the world with less fear and accept how others see me, for better or for worse. At the moment every day is a bad hair day as my former fringe is growing out and can’t seem to sit happily in any position. It’s anyone’s guess where my parting will end up but despite knowing that my hair looks a bit weird and dishevelled, I really don’t care. It’s a symbol of my new mindset.  

The second thing that took me by surprise this year, is living through a creative block. If you’ve read this blog before then you might remember that for about four months, I lost all interest in writing despite being part-way through my third book. Somehow I managed not to panic. I even accepted that I might never write again and found myself thinking about that famous line from the Serenity Prayer—“grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.” Then one week in July, as unexpectedly as it had disappeared, the desire to write returned. From that point on, I whizzed along and by the end of November the book was more or less finished. It’s currently with an editor. 

Once this stage is done, I’ll decide what to do next. No goals. No expectations. 

I’ll let you know what happens. 

It’s been a while since I posted anything here and there are good reasons for that. But it’s taken a while to work out what they are.

I was busily engaged in writing my third book and it was all coming together quite well. The road was not without bumps but there was nothing that felt insurmountable. One day I was rolling along stringing words together, crossing them out, and restringing them. Happily. And the next I stopped. Completely. It wasn’t classic writer’s block as it wasn’t that I lacked ideas—I just didn’t want to carry on. It was such a definite feeling of coming to a halt that I was not at all sure if I would ever write again. 

I was mystified as like so many other things in life, I didn’t see this coming. It left me feeling like a blank page—I knew I was there but I had no instructions. When anyone asked, “How’s the writing going?” I’d say that I’d stopped. And because I hadn’t expected that to happen, then I had no way of knowing what would happen next. 

It was a similar feeling to the one I had when I lost all motivation to read. A void where you know there is something that was once important to you but you have no idea how to access it. The reading void lasted several years. 

It’s lucky that I’m retired and so I’m not dependent on earning a living from writing. That meant I could justify to myself, that stopping was OK. It really really was fine. I’d already learned a lot from the research and writing I’d done in the several years I’ve worked on this project. And I’d enjoyed it so much that if it was never to go any further then it had still been worthwhile. That effort wasn’t wasted.  

For the first few weeks I felt like I was fighting an addiction. I’m so used to jotting down random ideas in a notebook or on my phone’s voice memo app, that it felt wasteful to let interesting stubs of conversation and other good material evaporate. They might come in handy I would think and then I would have to remind myself that I wasn’t writing anymore and so they wouldn’t. I resisted the squirrel urge and resolved instead to live in the moment. 

I found other things to fill my time. And I suddenly had a lot more of it. The garden got some attention, I went for more walks and I thought more carefully about what to cook. I could enjoy seeing friends without half my brain being distracted by the structure of the next chapter. It was a huge relief and I found myself thoroughly enjoying freedom from the shackles. I even started to wonder why I ever did the writing in the first place. 

There were hurdles to navigate though, as so much of my retired life has been structured around writing. I’m on the committee of the local writing society and didn’t feel I could own up there that I was no longer a writer. Instead I kept quiet but I felt like a fraud. I was honest with my writing group friends as that’s the best place to share these kinds of ups and downs. But everyone is different and so no-one had any answers. They were kind and didn’t threaten to eject me but I did wonder how long I could keep turning up if I wasn’t producing anything.  

I spent the Spring and early summer bobbing along—never bored and with many things to be grateful for. But still puzzled. 

Then by chance I read an article in The Guardian about a woman who had chronic burnout after a stressful time at work, and took a year off to do nothing. She stopped replying to emails, slept a lot, borrowed a friend’s dog, and ate bananas in bed. She acknowledges that she was lucky to be able to take this break but it captured my interest as it set me thinking about rhythms of busyness and rest. Then further on in the article came something that really did make me sit up and take notice. I’d never thought about needing different kinds of rest. I do some strenuous weeding and I take a nap, or the music’s too loud so I turn it down, or there’s a lot going on emotionally and I go for a walk. I’d call all these things rest or taking a break. But physician and researcher Saundra Dalton Smith says that we need seven different types of rest. Physical, mental, emotional, sensory and social I can relate to. Spiritual I’m still thinking about. And then there’s the final one—creative. 

“That’s it!” I thought. “I’m having a creative rest.”  And it made sense. I retired just before the pandemic and threw myself into what I enjoy doing—researching and writing. But in some ways it’s too absorbing and interesting and I struggle to get a balance. I’ve experimented with various strategies—working on it for a set number of hours each day…or only on set days…getting up early… but my life is erratic with plenty of other things that demand my attention and so any kind of pattern invariably breaks down. Simply fitting it in when I can, doesn’t cut it, as it just gets squeezed out.  

I still had no way of knowing if this writing void was a permanent state but at least I had a way to think about it. And the pattern that had led to it. But after about four months, despite my protestations that everything was good, I started feeling that something was missing. I like doing those gardening, cooking socialising things but for me they don’t come into the same category as writing does when it’s going well. If you regularly lose yourself in painting, sewing playing the piano…or whatever other activity absorbs you so much that you lose track of time, then you’ll know what I mean. That’s flow and apparently it is very good for our well-being. It was first described by psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi (pronounced me-high chick-sent-me-high). The activity needs to be challenging enough that you have to concentrate on it, but not so difficult that it causes you genuine stress.   

Then unexpectedly a few weeks ago I got the urge to open my computer and to click on the long-neglected book files. I started tinkering about. No pressure. And a couple of hours passed. It seemed like minutes. I was back in the flow.

One of the disadvantages of this state is that it makes life seem to pass even faster than normal. But I’m not complaining as I’m now whizzing along with a third draft. I’m constantly striving to find some kind of balance but it never feels achievable because something, somewhere has to give. I’m wobbling along on my bicycle. Almost inevitably I will at some stage fall off again. Then it will be time for another creative rest. It might be short or it might be prolonged but hopefully next time I’ll recognise it when I see it. 

As always comments are welcome. If you’ve experienced anything similar—or different—in any domain of rest, then I’d love to hear about it. You can reply using the comments feature or email me on 60treatsandmore@gmail.com and I’ll post the comment for you.

Photo: Richard Gatward

On Friday afternoon I walked down to my local sub-post office with a bag of parcels. I waited in the slow-moving queue and when I got to the front, the counter clerk dealt efficiently with the first three packages. They were each weighed, labelled and dropped into a plastic sack. Then I put the final one on the scales. “Where’s it going?” asked the clerk. “The Isle of Man,” I replied.  He looked doubtful. “Where?” he said. “The Isle of Man,” I repeated patiently. He stared at the parcel, frowned and tapped away on his computer. We had another exchange that moved us no further forward and after consulting his screen again, he turned back to me, handed me my parcel and charged me for the others. “I can’t take that one,” he said. “That place doesn’t exist. Please step aside.” He started serving the next customer while I went to the back of the queue to think. Eventually it occurred to me that the Isle of Man might have postcodes and if so then this might help. So I checked on my phone and sure enough, the intended address had a postcode starting IM4. The clerk didn’t look pleased to see me when I got to the front of the queue again but as soon as I uttered the magic postcode, and he tapped it into the computer, everything went swimmingly.  He nodded, printed out a label, and my parcel went to join its fellows in the plastic sack.   

I was amazed that the clerk had believed the computer instead of me—as if I was likely to be sending a carefully-wrapped parcel to an imaginary island. And then I remembered that I too had recently fallen into the trap of blindly believing what technology was telling me. I’d been planning a week’s holiday in Ireland and the basic outline of the trip was to spend time in Belfast, Dublin and Galway. We were flying to Belfast and home from Dublin—that bit was straightforward. But when I consulted Google Maps to work out how to travel between the different cities, the only options that came up were buses and coaches. “I guess there are no trains in Ireland,” I thought and when I told Mike he didn’t disagree. Fortunately, before I booked all of our various coach journeys, a train-geek friend asked about our plans. It’s always nice when people show an interest. “We’re travelling around by coach,” I said. “There aren’t any trains in Ireland.” “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. There’s a wonderful train system. I used it last year.” And he was right. It was wonderful. 

Photo: Richard Gatward

It’s hard to know what to believe when information comes at us from countless different sources. And the news is particularly tricky. These days I find it overwhelming because many of the issues are so complex that I simply don’t know what to think. I’m confident in my beliefs that recent UK governments have been incompetent, that Trump is despicable, global warming is real, Hamas is a terrorist organisation, and the level of civilian suffering in Gaza is terrible. But in so many matters it’s difficult to unravel exactly what is right and what is not. As Jonathan Freedland said recently, the people affected by the Israel-Gaza Conflict have suffered decades of pain. It’s not like a football match where you can support either one side or the other. It’s dreadful for people on both sides. And to something more trivial—are Harry and Meghan petulant attention-seekers or misunderstood game-changers. The only answer I can give is “I haven’t got a clue. How could I possibly know what things are really like for them?”   

I no longer watch the news on TV. And I’ve heard many people say the same. But I don’t want to shut my eyes to what is happening in the world, and so for the past couple of months I’ve been getting my news from The Week. I have a subscription and it arrives in the post every Friday. At some point in the weekend I try to sit down and read it pretty much cover to cover. What I like is that it doesn’t take an angle. Instead it gives a summary of how a range of different publications across the political spectrum, have reported news stories. It doesn’t necessarily help me make up my mind but it does at least improve my understanding of the issues and nudges me away from polarised conclusions. And in addition to UK, European and World news it has science news; business news; sports news; obituaries; book, film, theatre and art reviews; TV recommendations; a cartoon; a recipe, and even a weekly update on The Archers.  

It’s a small thing but it’s helping to keep me steady at the moment when so many of us are feeling small and impotent in a troubled world. I was talking about that with a friend this week. She has family in Israel and is extremely distressed about the conflict. “I feel so powerless,” she said. “I’ve thought hard about how to help and there’s nothing I can do to change the situation. The one thing…the only thing…I can do is to concentrate on being the nicest person I can be. That makes a difference to the people around me. It’s something I can believe in. So that’s what I’m doing.”

I’ll end on that thought and send greetings to one and all—wherever you are but especially if you’re on the Isle of Man or travelling on an Irish train this holiday season. Happy Christmas and a peaceful New Year. 

Belfast Big Fish by Mike Poppleton

It was my first trip to Europe since the pandemic and I’d been looking forward to it for months. We prefer to travel by train where possible and as we set off on the six-hour ride from Amsterdam to Berlin, we were full of holiday cheer. The first half-hour was taken up with chatting, dipping into our books, and staring out of the window but it wasn’t long before we started thinking about coffee so Mike set off to find the buffet. It was six carriages away and as there was a queue the expedition took about twenty minutes—not long in the context of our journey but as it turned out, those twenty minutes had far-reaching consequences.

At some point, as we sped across the watery Dutch landscape, a man got onto the train. Probably at Amersfoort though I can’t be sure. I was aware of him giving me a penetrating stare but thought nothing of it as it was only momentary and he then busied himself in putting his cabin bag on the rack above my head. Oh how innocent I must have looked, all alone and so happy and relaxed in my flowery holiday dress—dozing and reading. He seemed to fiddle with his bag for slightly longer than seemed necessary. Then he sat down—several seats ahead and across the aisle. I wondered almost subconsciously—why had he put his bag above me when there was plenty of room above his own seat?

Eventually Mike arrived back with the coffee and a while later he reached up to the rack to get his camera. He wanted to show me his photos from the evening before in Amsterdam when we’d wandered alongside canals and finished up with some spicy Indonesian food. “My camera bag’s not there,” he said sounding puzzled. “It must be,” I said and stood up to look myself. That was when we realised that my computer bag was also missing with my laptop and passport inside. At first, we couldn’t absorb the inevitable truth. It was just too uncomfortable so we searched disconsolately behind and under our seats until a friendly woman across the aisle asked what was wrong. “Our bags are missing,” I said and everything stood still while she took it in. Then she gasped, and her hand flew to her mouth. “It must have been that guy in front,” she said, “I thought he seemed odd.” By then of course he was nowhere to be seen, having carefully lined up his bag and our bags so he could sweep them off in one professional swipe.

I walked the length of the train but knew it was hopeless as he would have got off at the first opportunity. I found the train manager and when I told him what had happened he was sympathetic but resigned, and while we were talking I remembered having heard announcements the day before, on the Paris to Amsterdam train warning that passengers should be alert to pickpockets. It hadn’t occurred to me then that this loose translation didn’t just refer to slimy people who put their hands in your back pocket, but also those who with bold contempt, rob you of your luggage. The rest of the ride was not the dreamy, relaxed affair we’d expected but was instead taken up with applying for emergency travel documents, changing online passwords, and innumerable other activities that made me grateful that I still had my phone and bank cards.

When we reached Berlin we reported the crime to the police. They were camping out in a Portakabin at the train station and were having a quiet afternoon so we received prompt and courteous attention. Like the train manager they were sympathetic but unsurprised and compiled a detailed report which included taking our photos and seat numbers in case the thief could be identified from on-board CCTV though apart from remembering his slightly odd behaviour, I could not give any kind of description other than that he had dark hair and was slight, white, and aged around forty. Once the report was done and I had ordered a replacement laptop, there was nothing else we could do until we got home so I resolved to enjoy the holiday, rationalising that it was just stuff and I was thankful that no-one had been hurt. We then had two thoroughly enjoyable weeks including lots of Bauhaus architecture in Weimar and Dessau; a Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra concert; a tour of historic Tempelhof airport; Oktoberfest in Munich; visits to several of Mad King Ludwig’s castles, and a wonderful finale with warm-hearted friends in Bavaria. We joined them every morning for a swim in the local lake—the water was crystal clear and the Alps filled the horizon.

Inside the Philharmonie Berlin

When it was time to come home, and armed with my emergency passport we travelled from Bavaria to Southampton all in one day and it was very late when we got to bed. The next day I spent several hours setting up my new laptop and when all my usual apps were installed I finally got round to checking that my writing files were safe. I’d left that job until last as those are, to me, the most valuable. That was when I discovered a problem—the writing software I use appeared to have been backing up to the Cloud automatically as it promised it would and there were lots of zip files in Finder but when I opened them they were significantly out of date. Everything else I use was backing up so I had no reason to think that these specific files would be any different—all my licenses were valid and I had adequate Cloud capacity. It was mystifying. Fortunately, I had printed out a batch of first draft chapters so I do have those but much of what I have been working on for the past two years has been lost—thousands of random thoughts, references, notes from reading, things to follow-up on, and ideas about structuring were inaccessible and will be impossible to recreate. A resourceful customer support adviser named Jen did her best to help and was puzzled at the glitch, but in the end it seemed that nothing could be done.

I did my usual thing of trying to look for something positive—after all, having a road map is the only way I know to stop myself falling down a scary chasm of despair and depression—but both my daughters reminded me gently that it really is OK to feel upset. In fact it’s essential. So I’ve tried to sit with the difficult feelings—grief for the thousands of lost hours spent in reading and note-taking; anger at the weaselly man who made eye contact with me but didn’t care how much distress he caused; frustration with myself for not keeping a hard-disk backup; confusion about how much I have lost and what that means for my writing plans; dismay at the amount of work involved to get back on track, and fear that I will not be able to. But there are surprises lurking amongst rumpled emotions, and I’ve been taken aback—almost guilty—to recognise that I also feel some relief. And I don’t think this is misplaced Pollyanna positivity. I’ve been so engrossed in this latest project that I’ve done a massive amount of research, and the fact is that at times the volume of material I’ve accrued has seemed overwhelming. Now I’ve had an enforced decluttering and am left with the bare essentials. If I do carry on then all I can do is to trust that the most important ideas have lodged themselves in my brain and will emerge in a pared-back, more manageable form.

The day after we got back from holiday, and just before I discovered that I’d lost my writing files, Mike and I had a conversation about our magnolia tree. We used to get it professionally pruned every two years but recently it has grown more vigorously and needs doing every year. We both feel affection for it—the flowers are undeniably beautiful and any tree is a thing to be cherished. But the problem is that it’s way too big for our small front garden and when it’s in full leaf it makes the house extremely dark. “I think it might have to go,” I said reluctantly to Mike and he agreed.

Humans need stories. It’s how we make sense of the world and while I don’t want to stretch the metaphor too far, the fate of my writing and the tree seem to be running in parallel at the moment. Both have become too big for the space they occupy and they shut out the light. We’ll get our usual tree surgeon to remove the magnolia tree and then we’ll plant something more suitable. And if I do continue writing then I’ll replace my original project with something that is a better match for the time and energy I have available.

At the moment I have no idea what kind of tree or writing I’ll end up with. There are many options but it’s certainly my hope that the ground will not stay fallow for long. I’ll let you know.

The Bauhaus Building in Dessau

These days the pandemic and its strange contortions feel like another age but in amongst all the debris, some good things remain. And for me, one of the positive outcomes has been that Mike and I got together with two friends to form an impromptu Classic Film Group. It proved to be so enjoyable that we’ve kept it going and tomorrow evening we are due to have a Zoom call to discuss our 54th film, All About Eve. Our definition of Classic is loose—anything from the twentieth century, and as we take it in turn to choose and we have diverse tastes, the films have been very varied. 

I’ve long been interested in film but have big gaps in my knowledge and through our sessions have made some pleasing discoveries including Tokyo Story, The Misfits, Jean de Florette and Elmer Gantry. With my own choices it’s been a chance to fill in some of those gaps but also to revisit films of which I have fond memories and to see if they still hold up. Bicycle Thieves, Stand by Me, Paper Moon, and Singing’ in the Rain all did that for me but there was some lively disagreement—as with book groups, it’s fascinating and often surprising to see things through other people’s eyes.  

Some choices have been films that I’ve been aware of for years but have had no idea what they are about, or why they have that name. And for me that is one of the greatest pleasures of engaging with any art form—demystifying the title. What are The Wages of Fear? What’s happening On The Waterfront?  What caused The Angry Silence? Why did Babette have a Feast? What is James Dean doing East of Eden? Why and where are people In The Mood for Love? Who is Elmer Gantry? And Who Framed Roger Rabbit? Each time I encounter a film I’ve not seen, my imagination runs riot, coming up with an initial theory of what it will be like. I’m almost inevitably wrong in my assumptions, and watching as the story unfolds is a process of demystification; of passing from the murky shadows of speculation into illumination and understanding. Now when I look through the log we’ve kept, I have firm hooks to hang my thoughts on rather than extremely wobbly ones. 

Some titles leave little work for the imagination. With The Charge of the Light Brigade or Lawrence of Arabia you know broadly what territory you’re in. But others, whether films, books, theatre or TV lead you up the garden path. For years, I had no interest in watching The Sopranos as I assumed it was about an opera company. And Glengarry Glen Ross—what on earth is that? A whisky company in the Scottish Highlands? Apparently not. It’s set firmly in the nasty world of Chicago real estate. As a child I remember seeing my mother reading a novel called The Constant Nymph and have always wondered what it’s about. I’m still in the dark but have a vague theory that includes a gardener, a ballerina and some fairies. Wrong, no doubt but my theory will have to remain a placeholder until I get a chance to decode the title. Sometimes I watch or read things just for the sheer satisfaction of decoding the title; solving that small mystery and being in the know. That process of moving from the shade to the light is immensely satisfying. 

Do we all do it? It’s one of those things that is hard to know as people don’t talk much about what goes on in their head. It’s easy to assume that other people all think in a similar way to ourselves. But I think that many of us do it to some extent as it’s similar to what children go through in learning about the world; having to constantly come up with their own theories about the mystifying things that adults say to them. And sometimes the reality does not live up to the fervour of one’s imagination. I’ve never quite got over the disappointment of my first visit to London aged seven, when I discovered that Piccadilly Circus is entirely lacking in clowns and trapeze artists.

The problem about forming a theory is that it can lead you to decide in advance whether or not you’ll like something. I know I’m quick to jump to conclusions but because these are based on completely false assumptions then I risk missing out on things I might like. And when it comes to my family then I know I’m not alone. I remember when Molly was thirteen and we were discussing where to go for a short holiday. “What about Scarborough?” I said. She wrinkled her nose and said she didn’t like the sound of that at all. And yet I am absolutely sure that she knew nothing about it. 

I found myself doing something very similar a few weeks ago. Like so many couples, Mike and I live in the same house but operate in different time zones. I’m a lark and he’s an owl, so often after I’ve gone to bed at what seems an impossibly early hour for him, he watches TV and comes up with suggestions for things to watch together. “I think you’ll like Colin From Accounts” he said. My nose wrinkled involuntarily—it must be a family trait. “Oh no,” I said falling into my own trap. “I don’t like the sound of that at all.“ 

I resisted for a few days but eventually he persuaded me to try it…and my preconceptions were entirely wrong. There were no middle-aged men with spreadsheets and stained lapels. None at all. There were instead a couple of attractive main characters, sharp humour and the most adorable dog in the history of television. I passed from the shade into the light, loved it and devoured all seven episodes. 

Another small mystery solved. 

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