On Running Away

(but not leaving the county)

The stray dog was the last straw. Since the new year, I have been on the sort of writing deadline that should have me dropping my phone into a bucket of seawater and hammering planks against the front door. Day after long day hunched over my keyboard, I am derailed by unavoidable interruption and distraction (occasionally of my own making, in fairness). Each morning, I start the day with clear intention and then there is a doctor’s appointment, rugby training, a forgotten lunchbox, email admin, a broken boiler, after school figure drawing… That’s a small molehill of a mountain of stuff piling up demanding my attention so I flagged a day in the week and made it clear to everyone around me that I would be unavailable come hell, high water, broken washing machine or missing PE kit. And that is when the small, dirty, feisty terrier turned up in the garden.

   I thought she had chosen me on purpose. Of all the houses in the village that she could have stood outside looking forlorn, she chose my one. She looked like she had spent the night down a badger hole and had lost her name tag in the process. We eyed each other suspiciously.

   “I cannot see you,” I said to her, “you do not exist. I am not engaging with this situation because I am very, very BUSY.” She gave a series of short barks. “OK, I’ll give you some water,” I was begrudging. She followed me to the back door. If she had been out all night, she would be starving so I tore a few scraps off the Sunday roast chicken carcass and she inhaled them after refusing the Golden Retriever’s pellets. “You can come in I suppose.” I couldn’t leave her to wander off down the road. She may well have been used to this sort of gadding about, but she would be pretty hard to spot from a car. Or a tractor. I didn’t want that on my conscience along with my laundry pile.

   My dog tried to say hello and got short shrift. They were in a stand-off, either side of the kitchen table and in the middle was my laptop, notebooks, fresh mug of tea and all my hopes for a productive day disappearing fast. To be honest, it didn’t take long to find her owner through the warren of village WhatsApp messaging and within the hour Minnie was collected by a weary neighbouring (although still two villages away) farmer who was used to her antics. When she saw him, she literally jumped for joy, so high she could have been aiming to perch on his shoulder.

   “So sorry for the hassle,” he said to me.

   “Oh no worries at all, absolutely no problem, any time,” I chirped and went back inside to cold tea which tasted of desperation.

   All of this is to explain why, in order to save my sanity (and that of my editor) I have come away for a couple of nights to write until my fingers fall off. I have never disappeared before in order to work, but other friends and colleagues have, and they swear by it. I listen enviously and inwardly harumph at how easy it is for them to do so but I couldn’t possibly because then who would be around if the dishwasher packs up? At this point, I should make it clear that the rest of my family give the loudest encouragement of all about me leaving them. I am not going to dwell on why this is.

   Inspired by my writer pal, Veronica Henry, and her trip to a cabin on a river in South Devon, I manage to bagsy a couple of nights at the same place and drive there thinking I have made a big mistake and should be spending the money on a haircut or some new pillows. The thought doesn’t last long. Batsman’s Summerhouse is infinitely better than a half head of highlights or waking up without a stiff neck.

   Set on the raised bank of the River Avon, the 1930’s cabin - built from local timber for the batman (assistant) of a military gentleman - is an absolute, stylish, elegant sanctuary. The south facing delight achieves two almost impossible things. It makes you feel like you are immersed in nature, sitting amongst the trees and hanging over the river and yet, it is the warmest, cosiest place to curl up on squashy sofas in front of the log burning stove. I am here to work, so I set up my laptop and books at the round (so much nicer than rectangle) wooden dining table with a view of the river that spans the length of the cabin and beyond. I start writing while it is still dark and I keep going until bedtime. Every time I look up the sun has edged further around the valley and the water moves steadily, prompting my brain to do the same thing.

   I had planned to walk at some point. There are so many local places to visit, beaches within twenty minutes and a bakery which I can never resist, but my walking boots are still in the car. Instead, when I put the kettle on, I go and stand on the decking, take big gulps of air and listen to the owls, ducks, crows and peacocks and watch branches catch in the water. I have already decided I will be returning so I will save all the tourist things for then. Miranda, the owner and a fantastic artist, pops over with more logs and to see if I need anything, and I can feel myself talking too much which is what happens when you put yourself in solitary confinement and hide your phone in the cutlery drawer.

   Overnight, snug in my big bed, the rain battering against the roof as it had done for much of the day, I think about my car parked at the edge of the river and wonder if it will float away. No matter, I think, I will just have to stay. Unfortunately, it is still there in the morning.

Anyway, I really shouldn’t be talking to you, I should be working so if anyone asks, you haven’t seen me, OK?