Wendy Mewes begins the new year with her first column of 2011
Help, New Year and all that, must get on, no excuse, best foot forward. Don’t forget that resounding resolution of all writers – write! It’s a sad fact that authors have to put pen to paper or finger to key in order to fulfil their stated purpose, and that one can only go on cleaning the oven or remembering some essential shopping for a certain length of time before that deadline is passed and, let’s face it, no writing has actually been done.
But in truth inactive I am not – the real problem is that apart from everyday life constantly obstructing my mental efforts, there’s so much twittering, blogging and website updating going on that it leaves little time for ‘real writing’ or ‘that which brings home the bacon’. Just answering emails each day must be the equivalent of a novella.
I have outstanding work from last year, having promised in a rash moment an inordinate amount of copy for a new France-wide cycling website. Am I a cyclist? On top of all that twittering? You must be joking, but I have researched a lot of information about cycling in Brittany for various books and articles, and they don’t expect me to do the actual practical cycling bit.
My brief is a regional overview, an article on the Nantes-Brest canal (which after two books and endless talks can surely be done in my sleep) and town profiles for Quimper, Brest, Rennes, Vannes and St-Malo. This is bog-standard travel-writing stuff, but somehow it has slipped under the radar in all the ‘excitement’ of Christmas and making New Year resolutions. (Although I have got the latter taped on the whole, resolving to enjoy life, which I do, and work hard, which I do except in early January.)
So that’s the priority, because I pride myself on never missing deadlines or letting editors down. A writer’s word is their bond, and that’s about as heroic as it ever gets, so the pressure is on. And once the cycling material has pedalled its way off into the ether, I must get on with what was supposed to be entirely pleasurable: my new book project. Thank goodness, it’s only a little book, but it has to be done and dusted by May 1. On this day I’m appearing at a book fair for writers of legends, so yes, you’ve guessed it, I have to come up with the goods on goblins and fairies pronto.
Actually it’s not as bad as that. This all started when I won a prize in a competition last year set by the Parc Naturel Régional d’Armorique to create a legend to explain the disappearance of the nuclear power station in the Monts d’Arrée. This was the first in France, unaccountably located in the late 1960s in an area of outstanding natural beauty. It’s been decommissioned for donkey’s years now and will soon be dismantled – hence the competition.
So that one tale – Yann ar Yeun and the Grey Lord (or Yann ar Yeun et le Maitre de la Grisaille – it had to be translated into French, not by me, I hasten to add) is my passport into this salon of legend writers, although I suspect many other Breton writers will find a way in somehow, because how big a hall would you need to cater for strictly fantasists? I’ve decided to fill out a slim volume with a few other stories (Korrigans in Crisis) and a selection of poems (Black Dog Blues) about the Monts d’Arrée, where I live.
But – and let this be a lesson to you all, except I expect you are better disciplined and motivated than me in the first flush of new year inspiration – the oven is still calling, or rather the washing, the rubbish, the dog-grooming, the clearing out of kitchen cupboards, etc. Anything except sitting down, dusting off a pencil, plugging in the computer and GETTING STARTED!!!!!!!!!!
Readers of Living France will find a feature on Wendy Mewes in the February edition.
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Paramount Theme Park Murcia Costa Calida
Whilst the UK froze with temperatures plummeting to minus -22 in some regions, Spain’s ‘garden of Europe’, the region of Murcia and Costa Calida saw temperatures rise to 25c and higher. In direct sunlight the mercury hit 33c (90c) in sheltered areas.
Proof, if any were needed, that the decision to locate the new Paramount Theme Park in Murcia was no accident.
When Paris was chosen for the Euro Disney project, eyebrows were raised in certain quarters of the leisure and travel industry. The French climate is varied, with the Cote d’ Azure, (French Riviera) on the Mediterranean being the most appropriate place climatically. However, with most things French, politics and financial inducements saw the Euro Disney resort awarded to the often wet and foggy city of Paris.
There were no mistakes made with the recent announcement that Murcia is the ideal place to build Spain’s latest mega tourist attraction. The climate in the region of Murcia was very much seen as key to the future success of this multi million Euro venture. With over 320 days of sunshine per year, a new international airport and the recent boom in cruisliners arriving in Cartagena, there really wasn’t any doubt.
Murcia Paramount Property
During the first few weeks of December, as the temperatures in Murcia were closer to Caribbean averages than the Med, beaches around the Costa Calida filled with sun-seekers looking to take advantage of the bank holiday week and scorching temperatures.
Looking for a bolt-hole to write that new novel? Visit Murcia Paramount Property for property sales or rentals in the region of Murcia, Spain..
]]>No, it’s not like that at all in reality. Constraints operate from start to finish, and the final product is often far from initial hopes and the writer’s best intentions.
Wendy Mewes on editors
The first stumbling block is that old favourite – the “target market”. This is laid down by the publisher or editor, so immediately an author has to tune his/her antenna to what may be almost a foreign frequency. Yes, I have imagination in spades, but I am not a family, nor a student on a gap year, I am not retired, nor do I have much money (the market for a book designed for impoverished writers is minimal). I do have dogs, but they don’t read much.
The sub-clauses raised by these established expectations are legion. That beautiful church up steep steps on a sheer hill in Lannion is not very attractive to pushchair users. Pointing that out in the text seems rather to detract from the cultural allure of the place. Does a requirement for acknowledging potential gay readers mean that I have to attend a session at The Pink Sauna in Brest, or can I phone a friend for details (and maybe TMI)?
Let’s face it, whoever I’m writing this book for, it isn’t me and that’s something that brings all kinds of tensions to the project.
Length matters
Then we come to the text itself and the other major obstacle to superlative prose. The word limit. This is where the aims of writers and editors frequently part company for good, if they were ever united in the first place. The required number of words given in the brief is always less than will fill up the book (they know what writers are like – they like writing). But editors seem to work on the principle that whatever they get, they cut. So if you were asked for 5000 words and submitted 5001, some essential adjective is for the chop.
Of course there are times when cutting and adapting is necessary and desirable. If I get carried away by enthusiasm (Finistere) or indignation (pseudo-celticism) then someone certainly needs to come along and cut out a few dozen words here and there. Some cuts are not for words, but sense. A recent column on walking Brittany’s Green Ways I did for the Independent newspaper was requested as a winter piece but finally published in an August edition, with judicious cutting. Fair enough – weather conditions out, axes I wanted to grind left in.
It does sometimes go the other way. I once wrote that a restaurant was ‘a good place for a party including vegetarians’. The editor’s ‘improved’ version said ‘ a good place for vegetarians (and others) to have a party’…
Unlike bums on seats
But sadly, less usually turns out to be more when the editor really gets to work. You don’t have to be a mathematical genius to pose the equation. If the writer produces a basic description of a place with directions, opening times, etc. plus an insightful and oh-so-beautifully expressed personal assessment of its merit – which of those two elements gets lost in cutting words to fit on pages? The essential information remains and your prized perceptions have succumbed to the ruthless delete key. And don’t forget that sometimes text even has to shrink so as not to spoil those importantly enticing pictures.
It’s hard to be original in a guidebook, when space is bound to be limited. Selection of places remains something that is usually in the author’s remit – after all, you’re being paid for your knowledge and experience as much as anything. In writing about Brittany I’m always trying to include less well-known places, museums and sites of natural interest. The north coast of Finistere knocks spots off the Pink Granite baubles further east in my book, and who needs the Ile de Bréhat as long as boats are plying the Mer d’Iroise to Molène or the few hundred metres between Roscoff and the Ile de Batz? And I’d rather spend an hour at L’Univers du Poète ferrailleur near Lizio than a day at Oceanopolis.
Cross in Brittany
So my advice, if you are overwhelmed by the need to express your own unadulterated and unlimited views of places and people, is to forget the guidebook with its essentially prosaic function, and write a travelogue instead. Indulge your every whim, but be prepared to wait a very long time for sales to creep into three figures, let alone the magic four (unless you are my old mate George).
Wendy Mewes is the author of many guidebooks but ONLY ONE TRAVELOGUE – Crossing Brittany is available from all the usual channels.
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Room With a View
between raising twelve children – or was it thirteen? And Evelyn Waugh wrote parts of Brideshead Revisited in the trenches.
Whilst writers tend not to be under enemy fire these days, we do need to seek refuge from the demands of everyday life in order to protect our creativity. The daily grind might be necessary for economic and familial survival, but this is all too often at the expense of artistic potential. Retreats should provide a haven for both enthused and frustrated artists, a place to escape stresses, schedules, commitments and household tasks.
My own experience of teaching and attending retreats, for good and for ill, inspired me to set up one of my own. Frankly, I had tired of ancient English country houses whose beautiful facades were Trojan Horses of faulty plumbing, makeshift bathrooms and inept heating, of chattering teeth under musty duvets, and clouds of whining midges hovering behind the curtains. These ramshackle properties are often so inconveniently situated there is no possibility of walking out those desk-writing cramps because there’s a motorway on one side and a sheer cliff-drop on the other, leaving the only option that of convening with a group of antsy writers, all fighting for a few seconds of an exhausted tutor’s time. And the very worst: communal cooking and cleaning, which results in odd evenings of gastronomic delight – when the rota has fallen to those who happen to love cooking – interspersed with the mass distribution of beans on toast from the less proficient, and greasy plates studded with hardened specks of week-old food from previous meals. It might have worked for Waugh et al, but I’m not convinced living trench-style is the way to inspire an artist. I wasn’t hankering after gold taps shaped like swans and complimentary diamonds on the pillows; the simple luxuries I sought were large private rooms, deep beds to promote inspired dreams, good food and wine, convivial society, and – most importantly – absolute peace.
Bidisha In-House Tutor
My thoughts of finding a retreat in France were sparked by a discussion of the fundamental importance of the literary novel in French history and the value placed on the art of writing; yet, what really appealed was the idea of the French way of life, particularly in rural communities. This is a country that spreads its population across a vast stretch of land and has a culture in which taking a lengthy break to enjoy meals consisting of quality ingredients is standard procedure – a place where it is possible to prioritise space, time and comfort. The moment I discovered the Savoyard village of La Giettaz, with its golden-timbered chalets, pocketed at the foot of a fir-coated valley and guarded by the enigmatic white fin of Mont Blanc – not to mention a Chalet residence that offered precisely the service and atmosphere I yearned for – I knew I had found the ideal writers’ retreat.
Life in the French Alps has been a revelation; to have such a dynamic landscape on the doorstep is luxury in itself. In the summer and autumn there are gentle forest walks, rugged hikes, natural pools and pony trekking. While winter brings the chance to ski or snowshoe, wet or cold weather also warrants an afternoon by the woodstove with a book and a glass of vin chaud. You’d think – given all of this – it would be hard to get down to writing, yet I’ve found the opposite is true. When the body is satisfied, the mind is free to roam and create. It is at those times that the writer sits down and produces a greater quantity and quality of work in a shorter time than they ever have before. If they hit a snag they can stride it out – or unknot themselves by talking it through with fellow writers.
And this, for me, is key to a successful retreat experience – granting yourself permission to unwind, to invigorate, to be a writer, to create, and to mix with other artists in a proactive setting. After years of experience, I have found that many negative stereotypes regarding self-obsessed writers are completely untrue. The emergent writers I have taught, and the successful writers I’ve had the honour to meet, have all been touchingly modest, interesting, interested and lively. The right retreat will bring out these good qualities, often at exactly the time that writers are feeling self-conscious or pressured. Many attend retreats because they have reached a crunch point in their progress – nearing the end of a book, giving themselves a push to begin, or experiencing some life-changing event that has made them realise they want to be a writer more than anything in the world.
I chose this French alpine escape because it sates both the restless and the relaxed, while the dramatic surrounds and fresh air are sure to unearth those elusive plot clues, book titles and tantalising twists buried away in the subconscious. The humbling majesty of the mountain range and uninterrupted swathes of sky broaden the horizons of the mind and give your thoughts the space to play.
The most valuable thing can I offer on a retreat is individual, solo, one-on-one guidance, care and attention, not just with regard to writing but also the business of pitching and getting published. When the small-group workshops and readings are done, the writer must find both the self-belief and the support to structure, edit and complete. And then send their words out into the world. My hope for writers of all levels of experience is that they arrive in La Giettaz with an air of aspiration and emerge with a tangible sense of achievement.
Chalet La Giettaz is a traditional French Alpine chalet, recently refurbished into 10 self-contained boutique apartments, with a private spa and bar complex located in the neighbouring barn. We occupy a beautiful position, overlooking the picturesque mountain village of La Giettaz, just a short drive from Megève, La Clusaz, Annecy, Mony Blanc and the Chamonix Valley, and within easy reach of Geneva Airport.
Visit our website – http://www.chalet-la-giettaz.com/
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Wendy Mewes Travel Writer
I was asked to write the new Footprint guide to Brittany in June 2009. It looked a decent contract: reasonable recompense, good expenses, and a fairly free hand for choosing my subject matter. But as is always the case with time-sensitive publications, it turned into something of an ordeal – trial by eating on a heroic scale. Hercules would certainly have enjoyed such an epic exercise in stuffing.
It was not to be simply a guide to sights and events: the Footprint reputation has been built on accommodation and restaurant reviews and shopping advice as well. So, first reality-check for any would-be travel-guide writers out there – forget the romantic images! Very little time will be spent wandering leisurely, musing and polishing up your purple prose. Rushing about like a terrier on speed, collecting contact details, opening times, entry prices, cash-point locations and out-of-date website addresses will occupy most of your waking moments. The rest of the time, you’ll be eating.
My waistband and the deadline were equally tight. I had to cover the whole of Brittany in five months, which in theory divided neatly into a month per department plus one for writing up. My first task was to devise a complex plan of action. Experience has taught me that you need multiple levels of flexible planning if you are writing a guidebook or walking book. The weather is a big factor and not only because high temperatures do not help the digestion of those gargantuan meals. The main issue is getting vital scenic photos on a good day and this may take more than one trip. Itineraries also have to work around suitable restaurants and places to stay, given that the Footprint guide requires coverage of a range of budgets. My best bargain was to stay one night and eat at Grand Maison in Mur-de-Bretagne, squeezing only 85€ from my expenses for excellent accommodation and an unforgettable lunch (Christophe Le Fur has a Michelin star). On a lower note, I ate the worst meal I’ve had in France in La Gacilly – and suffered for it, but that would definitely be too much information.
Help is not at hand
Once on the road you will inevitably come slap bang up against the bane of travel writers – That-Which-Should-Be-Open-And-Is-Closed. You can’t trust websites, published opening hours or even a phone-call the day before, so cavalier is some of the tourist industry’s commitment to visitors. As I am not prepared to write without personal experience or detailed evidence from someone I know and trust (second reality-check: doing research on the internet is not an adequate substitute for hard graft), I have to find the time to track down friends who have visited such places. Coming back another time is often not an option logistically, so if all else fails, I just leave the so-and-sos out.
Other frustrating obstacles include Brittany’s tourist professionals. Even these traditional sources often can’t be relied upon. They make careful notes of requirements and deadlines and then completely forget to provide promised information. Still, I suppose that’s marginally better than the ones who have ‘left the building’ before you arrive for an arranged meeting after a drive of several hours. Communication is frequently poor in tourism here – not usually on ground level when the public are at eyeball length, but the further removed from the coal-face, the more fuzzy the focus. I’m not the only travel writer to have found this in Brittany – why aren’t they biting our hands off? (Sorry, can’t stop thinking about food.) But it is puzzling when you think that these major guidebooks are what account for a large proportion of visits.
If it’s July, it must be Côtes d’Armor……
So if even now you still harbour a sneaking feeling that I’m exaggerating and travel guide writing may not be highly paid, but it’s surely glamorous and the perks are great, let me tell you once again – the reality is different. Here’s a typical day. Wake early in hotel/B&B room, up for breakfast (home-made crepes and craquelins at a farm in Dol-de-Bretagne, yum), pack everything, check camera, tape-recorder and phone batteries all charged, lug lap-top and dog downstairs, pay bill and then explain why I’ve been staying there. Off on another day in and out of the car every few minutes, sites to visit, people to meet, photos to get, with a stop at carefully selected restaurant for lunch. Try to avoid three courses but sometimes fail (banana tarte tatin at Amour de Pomme de Terre in Brest).
Off again – most places are open in the afternoon so maybe a castle, a museum and a gallery on the same afternoon. Then check in to next hotel, sort out internet access, write up notes from tape-recorder. Off to another restaurant for dinner, photos of food (roasted sea-bream with lentils at La Table de Jeanne in Vannes), back to hotel – stuffed – then spread out tourist brochures and information collected during the day, go through it all, make more notes, plan itinerary for next day, get to sleep late – still stuffed – get up, breakfast, drive a long way, start all over again.
So next time you think being given money to write a travel guide is a glamorous occupation, remember that even thirty foot of intestinal tract takes a severe hammering from three meals a day over weeks of intensive travelling.
If anyone else tells me how lucky I am to be paid to eat in fabulous restaurants, I’ll just have to tell them to …… get stuffed.
Wendy Mewes Footprint Guide
The Footprint guide to Brittany by Wendy Mewes was out in June 2010 (www.footprinttravelguides.com)
]]>Walking and Writing Course
This walking and writing course is for anyone seeking to develop their work through inspiration from the natural world and man’s complex relationship with nature. Come and explore Brittany’s immensely varied landscape as a pathway to creative resources.
Location: BRITTANY, NW FRANCE
A fantastic coastline and rich interior of forests and moors strewn with neolithic remains.
Date: 20-24 September 2010 (Mon-Fri)
Content: Each day will involve walking and creative writing, with short prescribed exercises, original work, group discussion and time for individual reflection.
Course material will be provided to stimulate ideas and offer hints of geology, archaeology and history to make the most of your experience in this remarkable region, but the focus will be on individual development in a friendly and positive environment.
Cost: £365, including full board accommodation in shared rooms in a quality walkers’ gîte/traditional Breton house, transport to and from walks. Travel to Brittany is not included.
Course Leader: Professional writer and Brittany resident, Wendy Mewes.
Details : http/brittanyheritageservices.com/courses.htm
Contact: mewes@orange.fr
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organisations and heritage sites to train guides and improve the provision of information for English-speaking visitors. She also offers courses and study days on Breton history and culture, as well as a new course, Writer in the Landscape. She founded Brittany Walks (www.brittanywalks.com) in 2004 and regularly guides walks and visits designed to make the history and landscape of Brittany accessible to Anglophones. She has been filmed for regional TV for her work on the Nantes-Brest canal and broadcasts a radio series on the history of Brittany for Spotlight Brittany. Most recently, in June 2010 she was one of the prize-winners in the Parc Armorique competition to create a legend about the nuclear power station in the Monts d’Arrée.
Wendy’s first column will be published here on Brittany Writers Magazine on Sunday 11th July – Don’t miss it!
]]>Paul had seen the poster advertising the festival a few days before. 4em Festival Saumon 11-14 Juillet 1998. A meaningful festival of salmon in a small inland town such as Pont Scorff seemed unlikely despite its river but he decided to go along. It was somewhere different to spend a Saturday afternoon of his holiday. Just how different it would turn out to be, he could never have imagined.
jazz concert, or a salmon festival.
The activities, the poster said, started with a free jazz concert at the Theatre de plein air. Although jazz was not his favourite type of music, he made his way past the long food stands being prepared for the evenings festivities, to the temporary stage he could see erected on the river bank. The plastic chairs arranged in rows in front of the stage were almost full but there were plenty of spaces on the grassed amphitheatre created to provide tiered seating, on the slope behind them. The music had already started as he sat down on the lightweight waterproof he had been carrying. The three musicians, a pianist, a drummer and a guitarist were dwarfed by the large covered stage with its myriad of equipment. Giant black speakers stood high on either side with plastic sheeting fluttering on top, where it had been placed to protect the units from the light drizzle that had been coming down most of the day.
Paul looked again at the leaflet he had picked up on his way into the festival grounds. Les Freres Jazz en concert. But these were no freres, the pianist was a girl. Not just a girl but the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Thick, dark, almost shoulder length hair surrounded her elfin face. She wore a black short sleeved T-shirt and underneath her electronic piano, which was perched on two trestle legs, he could see she was wearing dark jeans. On her feet, which were keeping time with the music, were sandy coloured boots.
She sat there playing, looking only occasionally at her fellow musicians and even less occasionally at the audience. No emotion showed in her face but she played the most captivating jazz he had ever heard. He didn’t understand it and he only recognised one tune but the sound that came from her piano made him lean forward to capture every moment. Was it the music or was it the player?
The guitarist, who seemed to be the leader, spasmodically used the microphone which otherwise stood lonely at the centre front of the stage. Apart from ’Merci’ thanking the audience for their applause his announcements were incomprehensible to Paul. Presumably the name of the next number they were about to play but generally one piece followed another without introduction and with very little respite in between. The guitar player was tall, probably six foot but with the slimness of youth. He too wore a black T-shirt, long black hair tied behind his head and the suggestion of a beard under his chin. The drummer, what could be seen of him from behind the large drum kit, wore a similar black T-shirt to his companions. He also had thick dark hair and a similar shaped, although wider, face to the girl pianist. Perhaps, Paul conjectured, the drummer was her frere and the guitarist, could be her boyfriend. This thought upset him, for he knew now that he must meet her, however long he had to wait. The next entertainment, the Tenors of Brest, were not due according to the programme, until the evening but he couldn’t imagine that they would continue to play until then.
Eventually the tall guitarist walked up to the microphone, his guitar is hand, having removed the strap from around his shoulder. ‘Merci, Merci bien’ he said and as the applause gathered strength, he pointed with his free hand to the fellow musicians. They both stepped forward from their instruments and stood alongside their leader, a sliding scale in height from six foot to five foot two. They took one joint bow and ambled off to the back of the stage.
The audience started to stand up and move away, possibly to look at the other attractions at the festival. For Paul, no attraction could match the petite piano player. His problem now was how to make contact with her. He didn’t think he would be welcome back stage. Big, burly stage hands seemed to be patrolling the area. He sat and waited, an increasingly lonely figure on the tiered banking.
Then, from out of the high canvas wall behind the stage, the trio emerged. They headed towards a stone building on the other side of a small inlet from the main river. Paul knew he had to follow. He jumped down from the bank, remembering to pick up his waterproof and walked quickly after the musicians. They declined to use the small bridge that led to the building, which Paul could see from the notice on the wall was le Musee de Peche.
Instead they walked to a large white pole, which stretched out almost horizontally across the creek. It did not quite reach the other side and underneath was hanging a triangular, flat bottomed basket. As far as Paul could tell it was a demonstration of how salmon fishing was carried out in the river. As he drew closer the tall guitarist started to walk across the pole, arms extended to keep his balance. When he reached the end he jumped to the far bank. The drummer followed, reaching it safely amidst cries of encouragement from either bank. The two t-shirted musicians then started to shout ‘Allez, allez’ and after some hesitation the pianist decided to follow them. She shuffled across the pole without the bravado of her two companions. When she reached the middle, despite flailing her arms trying to prevent it, she slipped off the pole and crashed backwards into the stream. Roars of laughter came from her companions on the other bank but Paul didn’t hesitate. Throwing his waterproof aside he dived headfirst into the water. His dive was brought to an abrupt end, for less than two foot under the surface he hit muddy but firm earth.
He rolled over and as he lay on his back he could see the pianist standing up with most of her five foot two above the water. Little more than her sandy coloured boots were submerged below the surface. Her clothes were dripping, her hair matted and wet and her face daubed with mud but creased with smiles. After the initial shock he joined in the laughter and taking her hand hauled himself to his feet. With the help of her fellow musicians they climbed up the bank.
The commotion caused by their entry into the stream had obviously alerted the museum staff. One came out with two large towels and they all went inside to dry off. As Paul and the pianist stood wiping off the worst of the river, the drummer went to large drinks machine in the foyer. He bought them both a hot chocolate which they drank seated on adjoining chairs warming themselves up.
Although Paul realised he had made a fool of himself, he had at least made contact. He knew that now was the time he had to make his move.
‘Mademoiselle’ he said.
‘Monsieur?’ Her dark eyes looked into his.
‘J’aim …’ Hell, why did his French always let him down at vital moments. He wanted to say how much he loved her playing.
‘J’aim jouer..’
‘You love to play? she replied in English, with a smile that had him in a fluster.
‘You speak English,’ he blurted.
‘A little Monsieur, a little’.
‘What I wanted to say, was how much I loved your playing.’
‘Merci Monsieur,’ she gave a slight bow of her head, ‘but of course it is not just me,’ and she pointed to her two fellow musicians.
‘I was going to ask you about them,’ Paul replied and pulled out of his pocket the now soggy leaflet. ‘It says “les Freres” but you are not a frere.’
She tilted her head back and laughed. Paul had fallen in love with her on stage where she had been expressionless but now her laughter engulfed him. He wanted to pick her up and hug her.
She pointed to the two men. ‘These are the brothers’. She indicated the tall guitarist. ‘This is Marcel Lebrun’ and turning to the drummer, ‘this is Pierre Lebrun. And I, am Michelle Lebrun.’
I was right after all, Paul gleefully said to himself, when I thought she looked like the drummer.
‘And you,’ he almost shouted, ‘are their sister,’
She looked at him open mouthed.
‘La soeur’ he repeated in French in case she didn’t understand the English term
‘Mais non Monsieur, mais non. She walked over to the guitarist. ‘Marcel is a dear friend’. She turned to the drummer, ‘but Pierre’. As she looked into Pierre’s eyes and took his hand in hers, Paul noticed for the first time the ring on her finger. ‘Il est mon marie’.
Married! Paul’s thoughts raced, how could she be married.
He raised himself up and threw the towel over the chair. He nodded to the two men, ‘Messieurs’. He turned to Michelle, ‘Madam. I must go, au revoir’.
‘Stay’ she said, ‘come and have a real drink with us. After all we must thank you for saving my life’. Paul could tell from her eyes that it was a gentle joke.
‘No, I must go,’ he said ‘and look for my waterproof’. It was the best excuse he could think of.
As he trudged out of the museum, his wet clothes still clinging to him, he made a secret pact with himself. This is the last time I shall ever go to a jazz concert, or a salmon festival.
Wordcount: 1,6oo
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Europa
Europa was built in 1911, and served until the 1970s as Light Ship in the River Elbe. Then bought by an enterprising Dutchman in mid 1980s, for conversion to a Sail Training Ship. Now she ply’s the Atlantic offering adventure in Tall Ships Races and Antarctic Cruises. My voyage, Salvador (Brazil) to Ushuaia, the southernmost tip of Argentina – nonstop.
She rode majestically at anchor as I approached in the launch; I had waited nearly fifty years for a ‘ride in a Windjammer’. We new passengers were welcomed aboard by Capt. Eric and some of his crew. The first priority was safety instruction and the use of life saving equipment. But Europa is registered as ‘Sail Training Ship’, where fare paying passengers become “Voyage Crew”. We were assigned to sea Watches – we were to ‘man the ship’ 24 hours a day at sea – then introduced to our Watch Leader, Ellie (short for Eleanor). Sailing is her first and real love; she had sailed on Europa from Las Palmas. Then down to our cabins which are 2, 4 and 6 berth, with not much spare space in any of them. But they are air conditioned!
The powerful and brilliant tropical sun of Brazil was quite oppressive after Brittany in October. We wallowed, trapped in the humid heat in a seemingly interminable bureaucratic delay, waiting for Brazilian Customs clearance. “Plenty of good food here” I noted with great relief in my diary. A 28 day voyage on a Brittany Ferry, and I would have starved to death! In fact practically all the food on board was made in the galley, including three types of bread. Plentiful and varied, it was real ‘home’ cooking.
The next thing I knew was what seemed to me a chaos of moving feet – all bare. Millions of ropes were everywhere and above all a commanding female voice. The bosun, Val., coordinated the pulling and climbing of so many men as the sails suddenly appeared. Five big square sails were set on each of the fore and main masts. Suddenly the green grasp of Salvador was fast disappearing astern of us, as we stood out for Ushuaia, over 3000 miles away.
Even though I had been to sea before, I comprehended little of what was going on aboard Europa. As I groped my way for’ad to the foredeck for my first watch keeping, I was greeted by a ticking off from Ellie for being 5 minutes late! Our duties were to keep lookout on the foredeck, steer the ship and act as reserve to the professional crew, during our watch. 21 of us voyage crew were split into 3 watches, working 4 hours ‘on’ then 8 hours ‘off’, with a split watch in the afternoon which served to create a watch rotation. This meant that we were not on duty for the same hours on consecutive days. This did wonders for one’s diurnal rhythm!
The real wonder of a sailing ship is the masts and rigging, and I longed to climb aloft. The watch routine gave us (some) free day time, time in which we could “help” the professional crew. We stared aloft in wonder as a crewman hung in a ‘bosun’s chair’ far above us, cleaning and greasing the fore jib stay. But first we had to go to “climbing school”. The entire professional crew of 14 had it in mind to watch for our safety. Several of them were designated for training, with the accent on safety. Fire and ‘Man Over Board’ drills – one did actually fall overboard recently, but was almost instantly recovered! There were also lectures and drills in sail handling, and even Ocean Currents.
They said that the motto of Europa is “Do what you can, as much as you like”. That could include writing and photography, as well as seamanship. We were encouraged to produce a daily “Web Log”, which was published on the ship’s web site for the benefit of the folks at home. (our loved ones had trouble identifying the actual, little gales from the reported storms!) Here are a couple of ‘log entries’, which I think, give a flavour of our working life.
“Maintenance work continues and this week I have been helping varnish the yards on the main and foremasts. This has presented a personal challenge as I suffer from vertigo but I am proud to say that I managed to make it all the way up to the Skysail on the mainmast – a height of some 33 metres! The view from the top (once I had opened my eyes) was incredible and I left my fingernails embedded in the mast as a memorial to this occasion! “
- This from a very competent young chap.
“Winds light, but remaining about 1 point off the port quarter. We have entered the region of the cold Falkland current that runs up from the Antarctic. The weather is now dominated by high and low pressure systems which produce variable – and often useless winds! Noticeably much colder, with the air temperature falling from 11 degrees yesterday noon to just over 8 degrees today noon. Only a light swell running. Squalls threaten, but do not appear!
But it is not all wind and waves on the Europa. Sailing ships have always used periods of calm weather to do essential maintenance on the running rigging. This is the seemingly incomprehensible mass of ropes and pulley blocks that enable the seamen to handle the yards and set the sails. Ropes wear out and wooden blocks need re-varnishing to protect them from the weather ahead – in Antarctica. The bosun has an exhaustive list of jobs – ranging from chipping rust, painting and varnishing – to do. While some of these tasks require experienced and skilled seamen, some can be tackled by the less experienced “voyage crew”. With climbing instruction and a good safety harness, even the least experienced can climb aloft and soar with the Albatrosses! Though furling (that is tying a storm maddened sail to the yard) requires enormous strength and skill, replacing blocks in calm weather does not. I thrill to see my own work done up aloft!
On deck, on watch and off, we rush to man braces, and set sail to catch what we can of the fickle winds. Nothing like heaving on braces and halyards to keep one warm on a cold night watch!”
So much for work, we had relaxation too. Though our first “Deck Dance” was rained off, we were not put off “Crazy Golf” “High Stakes Poker” or the “Murder Game”.
We had a fairly spacious, for a sailing ship, passenger saloon with bar, a chartroom/library and deck space. Meals, whenever possible were served on deck. It is apposite to mention here that while the professional crew were nearly all Dutch, the Voyagers were American, British, Canadian, Dutch, and Scandinavian in roughly equal proportion, plus one German; all aged between 18 and 69. They all liked a different spread on their toast! Cook Renjie was a marvel. She managed to provide a varied and tasteful selection on a buffet breakfast and lunch, not to mention a midnight snack for those on night watch, and, a very wholesome evening meal. Nobody ever went hungry, and no food was ever left uneaten. It did me a power of good!
Freedom
But there was one aspect of our life which could not be described as a ‘holiday’ – that was watch routine. Because it ‘rotated’, it was not possible to ‘get used’ to the varying hours of duty. This caused increasing fatigue as the voyage went on. Even the toughest of us, the young Scandinavian was beginning to tire. Yet there was always a human miracle, 21 Voyagers and 14 Crew had to live and work together in quite a cramped vessel – no escape for the 26 days we were at sea in the South Atlantic!
As we headed south, those winds described as ‘fickle’ were starting to get rather cold! Yet we joyed at halyards and braces, often well after our watch was over. She heels over; we tingle inside as she races away! Tall Ship or small boat – sailing is an exhilarating experience. And that’s without the unforgettable sight of the soaring and sweeping of the great ‘Wandering Albatross’ and the frenetic dynamism of the Dolphins.
So what kind of people were we who sailed on the barque Europa? One voyager put it
“Personal pilgrims; seeking opportunities, re-evaluation, discoveries, letting go, peace.”
For several of the youngsters, it was the first; they went in search of a life under sail. For me, at 61, it was to see what I was really ‘made of’. Like many other voyagers – I was pleasantly surprised.
But the professional crew were a very special sort of people. They lived for their life of wind and sea, though in very lowly paid and insecure employment. They were superb seamen, moving with gracile ease however violently the ship pitched and rolled. A smile always passing from face to face, their camaraderie poetic, as it spoke of the grandeur of their humanity. They struck me as truly ‘at one’ with both nature, its movement and the demands it makes upon the body; and with themselves, each and every one of them.
Did I leave Europa any the wiser? Yes, for the memories!
Word Count 1500
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]]>We have a charming cottage, here, in the hamlet of Tilibrennou, which is part of the commune of the village of Berrien and set in the dramatic landscape of the Arree Mountains regional park..
We love this little place, not just for its peace and quiet, but for all the friendly neighbours that live round us who are all so kind and helpful . The forebears of several of the inhabitants also lived here, in the days when the whole area was made up of very small farms. Our neighbours tell us that the life was very hard in days gone by. There was no mechanisation at all, and the haulage was done by the great old Breton horses. The people tilled their soil by hand. Yet, despite all their travails, they always found time to share a smile, to share their hospitality and to be there when help was needed . I am glad to say this is still the case in our hamlet today.
Our home was built in 1853, it is three separate houses joined together. The central house being older still, has remained as it once was, It preserves its original curved Breton doorway, 2 hearths and one tiny window. Unusually, it also has an out side stone staircase, by which you reach the first floor. We are lead to believe that this was the old village forge, where the blacksmith lived with his family upstairs, while horses lived down below.
Built onto each side of the forge is a small cottage, on the left and a small out house on the right. Originally, the cottage on the left was a farmhouse having one large kitchen/living room on the ground floor, with a pair of ladder like stairs leading up to a single first floor room. This is the cottage that has been renovated and is where we now live . The forge and out house are next on our list for renovation.
Today, the large area on the ground floor of the cottage has been divided, and a part converted into my studio. But we still retained one of the period features of a the large stone cauldron that was built into the wall and used to store salt . This is now filled with rolls of canvas, stretchers and frames all waiting to play a part in the art of creation.
My art is inspired by my interests in nature, classical narratives and the esoteric arts which include yoga, meditation, charkas, Kabbalah, and colour therapy.
My paintings are constructed on the similar concepts as mandalas and yantras which contain symbols, shapes, figures and colour energy combined and united.. Each picture has its own ’colour life. A colour scheme created with care and drawn together as each tint and hue lay side by side in specific proportions that compliments each other, as they unite the idea to the composition. Each picture generates with subtle energy radiating towards the viewer taking them towards a doorway transporting them on a spiritual journey in their unconscious mind
Colour surrounds us, it feeds, and nourishes our senses. We see it, feel it and absorb it. Our minds, bodies and spirits are profoundly affected by it. The impact of colour on us is multifarious. Each colour with its tints and hues carry their own wavelengths and frequencies that vibrant with subtle energy. Each has a specific shape and has its own attributes for healing, energizing and invigorating, calming, relaxing and for quiet reflection. As theory suggests we can also hear colour in music as each colour of the spectrum is associated with a musical note on a octave scale.
Colour in its self can speak to the soul in a thousand different ways and like our
features and ideas follow the changers of our emotions, and it may be seen in the Aura Field which surrounds us all which is a subtle universal energy pervading all of nature. It radiates within and without.
The great Master of art Vincent van Gogh writes to his brother Theo .
“ I retain from nature a certain sequence and a certain correctness in placing the tones; I study nature, so as not to do foolish things, to remain reasonable. However, I don’t mind whether my colour corresponds exactly, as long as it looks beautiful on my canvas, as beautiful as it looks in nature”
( Letter to Theo van Gogh, October 1885) .
The many forests with their winding pathways that surround us here in Berrien, Huelgoat and Lock Marie Berrien flourish with a variety of fauna and flora, natures delight in all its glory. My camera never stops clicking as I look here and there at the wonderful textures ,shapes and colours that nature has to offer. In sunshine, rain or mist it radiates with mystery and serenity. And what a beautiful offering it is.
My art is my way of expressing how I see my environment. It is my way of connecting with the beauty of nature and its beckoning invitation to mediation and contemplation. Trees, barks, roots, fungi, twigs, stones are my excuses to turn a blank canvas into a live, imaginative and vibrant picture .
I practice mediation and Hatha Yoga regularly which enables me to be feel relaxed and to have a peaceful frame of mind which releases my creative process and self awareness to gently ascend and flow with ease carrying me through a network of shapes, patterns, colours, tints, hues and time; which has no boundaries.
My figurative paintings transpire from my love for the classical and religious narratives such as Abelard and Heloise, Homer’s Odyssey, Orpheus and Eurydice , A Midsummer’s Night’s Dream, The Visitation, The Flight into Egypt etc. The naïve figures in their colourful attire and unique features all make a appearance in my style of genre. And my pallet, paints and brushes are always there waiting and participating as I transfer images from thoughts to canvas.
My thoughts now drift back to the day when I first met a certain person who opened the door for me into the world of art I was walking past a Brick-a-brack shop in Wimbledon Surrey when a picture in the window caught my eye. It had a tree with flowing branches, a valley with a little village in its midst which included a church with a steeple. The moon shone bright and the sky was full of whirls and swirls and shining stars, the picture gleamed with hues and tints of blues, greens and yellows. The picture cost me fifty pence it was a print stuck on board and it was called ‘Starry Night’ and the artist was Vincent van Gogh. I was fourteen years old then and it is a very, very long time ago. From that moment on the life and work of Vincent has been my guiding star, he has motivated me ,inspired me and helped me through good times and bad times from school days to collage days and right through out my working life. And I thank him for opening that door that welcomed me to the awareness of seeing violet in the sky and for seeing turquoise in a yellow sunflower petal and for introuducing me to my hidden emotions and their creative force that lay deep with me that needed to be set free to express itself in my own creative being. And my journey still carries on.
“To Vincent from Penny”
Here I am giving Vincent a bunch of his favourite flowers. It’s the only painting that I have done, and will ever do, that is similar to Vincent’s style
“Paysage II”
It is an abstract painting inspired from one of my walks, and materialized through meditation.
If you are interested in seeing more of my work please visit my website.
My exhibitions in France have included…
La Roe Abbey—La Roe, Mayenne. –2006
Gallery Goodchild—. Renaze, Mayenne, -2006
Espace Village Plein—Angouleme, La Charente—-2007
Café L’Autre Reve— Berrien ,Brittany,–2008
Espace Gleanmoor Arts Centre– Carhaix, Brittany,–2009
Cahaix tourist and media center–Carhaix, Britany,–2009
This year for the first time I will be exhibiting at the London Contemporary Art Fair in Chelsea, London from the 4th to the 6th of June 2010. So I am now busy working on all my new ideas bringing them together so that each painting, with its own characteristics, will enhance my exhibition as a whole.
And in the mean time I would like to wish you all the pleasantries of Brittany — of the enchanting forest of Broceliande that emanates with the romance and intrigue of King Arthur’s court and the magic of Merlin. Of the hubble and bubble of the weekly village markets with the tantalizing aromas of smoked sausage, pickled herrings and fromage de Chevre. Of the festivals of Fest-Noz and a Pardon with the charming Breton ladies in their crispy white lace coiffes and embroidered dresses of pearls and ribbons and the elegant Breton gentleman in their round brimmed hats and fancy waistcoats as they dance the polka and circle dance to the rhythm of the accordion and bombard . And I wish you Wine, with ‘Moules Frites’ . And most of all I wish you Peace, Love and Light.
Penny Gardiner.
Word Count 1596
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