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.