Steve’s July Blog

This delightful, old mill house is half a mile from the nearest road down a long drive. It used to be the home of Ted Hughes. And Sylvia Plath’s grave is nearby in Heptonstall.

Here’s an edited version of my summary of the week which I prepared for the final Friday night showcase.

Monday

Arrival and the unknown, the invisible forging of relationships awaits our surprise.

Dear writer, welcome to Lumb Bank…this tiny writing desk with lamp and little chair, above a room resonant with life writing and poetry. This space which, it seems, I have chosen to ignore, neglected. As if I had let it pass me by.

Introductions

We give ourselves descriptors, like Seasick or Satirical Steve; each with our own story, clusters of life events, trauma, aware of differing tensions in the fibre of our being.

Tuesday

In this valley of peace and silences, the backdrop hush of the beck scattered with distant bird song, I sit at my laptop, incongruous on this simple writing desk, switch to iTunes on my headphones, and pour myself a beer.

But no, I take off the headphones and my spirit is lifted with the glorious breath of this hamlet as June sunshine breezes in and breaks over the green blanket and white duvet beside the open window.

You should know better at your age
than to indulge yourself too heavily
with vision - kneel and grab handfuls
of the earth, raise them over your head
let the dirt fall in your face your hair
and laugh, laugh a belly laugh, the
wide open laugh of a baby, happy
just to be, here in this gathering place
among the roots of trees, the elegance
of their fine, sun loving leaves, and the echoes
of water over stone in the valley’s groove.

There is something of the spirit here of a great man and a great love for his wife, her spirit. The trees cling to the valley, curled at the ridge over edges of fields. Jackdaws, pheasants and even curlews’ voices rise on the breeze.

Wednesday

The beck the stone the moss the dipper enveloped in the magic whisper of the water.

Thursday

The bench’s unassuming stare across the valley, the one facing the other askance, relics of night time midge-fuelled conversation.

When I leave here perhaps I will drift a few hours on my journey and I will arrive at the same place, but my heart will be different and my soul will have shifted a notch or two on the measure of our universal path.

…

I heartily recommend Arvon courses. They can be an inspiration and a joy. So many of the writers on the course had experienced some kind of severe trauma or mental ill health in their lives. All of their experience fuelled their drive for writing and creative expression and through that a kind of healing.

(The excellent tutors on this occasion were Carole Angier and Carole Seymour-Jones.)