Correspondence with the past

Well, I certainly spoke too soon in that last post about technology and health issues! How dependent we are on both being obligingly functional - and how frustrating life becomes when they're not. But here's looking forward to an upturn with the spring ...

One real positive last month, though, was a visit to Gardd Newydd, a centre in Lampeter for Welsh learners. I belong to the Clwb Cardiau Post (The Postcard Club) which encourages learning through correspondence with other learners and Welsh speakers. Needless to say, I've always preferred pen and paper to technology! And the art of letter writing, whilst not as flourishing as it once was, certainly isn't dead - I love getting correspondence literally in my hand and enjoy keeping in touch with friends all over the world that way. 

On our weekend in Lampeter we had a visit to the National Library in Aberystwyth where they have the most amazing postcard collection, dating from a hundred and more years ago. It was fascinating to see the cards sent from all parts of Wales to all parts of the globe - and to read the messages that they carried with them. Little did those folks realise, visiting Wales for work or leisure, how their words would be read so widely decades later. Fragments of immortality. And I found that so many of the messages lent themselves to resurrection, to recycling in prose or verse as "found" pieces. The only thing changed in the following (a compilation of two postcard messages from a century ago) is the punctuation. I'm still trying to picture the individuals involved!

Well old girl, how are you?

I have put off writing -

I feel horribly ashamed of myself.

Have they gone?

I am sorry I did not see you.

I should like to meet you

at the same old place.

Could you stay a few days?

I would be so glad of you coming.

I am alive,

nothing more,

not even kicking.

(Anon and Anon)

Moving into Spring

With writing, as with so many other creative ventures, some projects seem to arrive almost "oven ready" (to borrow a certain politician's favourite phrase!), while others only materialise after a long period in a slow cooker. I'm currently working on one in that latter category. At long last it's beginning to take shape, and in a way that shape has quite surprised me. Years ago ago I was told to "listen to your characters", to "follow where your story takes you" - advice that's held good ever since and certainly holds good here. However at some point you perhaps have to rein the story in a bit - no story is ever truly finished, but its telling on paper has to have a conclusion. At the moment I'm tugging on the reins though I don't quite know where I'll come to a stop!

But after almost two months of ongoing technology issues and family illness, things are (if I dare to say it!) a little more on an even keel. During that time Spring appears to have sprung, with the snowdrops already going over and daffodils and crocuses in full bloom; the evenings are starting to draw out and the garden is beginning to make a take over bid for the house. But deadlines have also come and gone so gardening will certainly have to take its place in the queue here ...

At this time of year I always feel that things begin to look up on the more social side of writing life too. The first of the events on the Abergavenny Writing Festival takes place this weekend and the Cheltenham Poetry Festival is just around the corner. For a group of people who spend much of their time working in isolation, these opportunities to meet up with like-minded others, to talk about and to celebrate what we do, are, I feel, very important. Writing groups have always been integral to my writing life; for a variety of reasons, after a great ten years of membership, I'm no longer able to continue with Catchword in Cirencester. It's certainly been the most supportive group I've worked with, and I'll really value my ongoing informal contact with the other members.

On New Year's Eve

Winter sunrise over the Bristol Channel

I've spent today catching up at the desk after a Christmas break, editing some prose and very grateful to be safely indoors. The rain has been lashing down outside and gives no sign of abating - a metaphor perhaps for a year that for too many people has not been great on many fronts, that has held out only limited hope of much respite ahead. But tomorrow sees the dawning of 2023, a new year with possibilities, opportunities too  - let's hope we're able to make the most of those in every way we can. Here's to a happier, healthier, more peaceful and fulfilling time for us all. 

Seek (hard enough) and ye shall find!

The proverbial needle in a haystack wasn't in it - we had no idea where to even begin to look for them. A box of letters, written a hundred years ago, letters that told a story then and could possibly contribute significantly to a story being told now - but they hadn't been seen in years. In fact it could have been that they were no longer in existence. 

I've always been a bit like a dog with a bone though - I won't stop worrying at an issue until I'm sure it's dead and buried, with no possible prospect of resurrection. So for the past six months I've searched high and low for those letters. Just as I was about to admit defeat, one last possible resting place for them came to mind. The joy at actually finding them there (and the tale of the discovery will now be an integral part of the story) was indescribable.

The letters were written to the Reverend Alexander Leitch, a fascinating man and my husband's grandfather, who sadly died many years before I joined the family. Four years ago I decided I would write his biography, detailing his involvement in many of major late nineteenth and early to mid twentieth century events. But that undertaking has presented me with challenges I've not experienced with any other writing project. Only recently has access to various archives become available again after the pandemic. Individuals who knew him or much of him are now few and far between and sadly frailty and illness have rendered some of those unable to help. The letters, however, written at the time of his young son's death, give a remarkable insight into his life and times. They've provided an huge impetus to the whole project. And - as someone who enjoys writing and receiving letters myself - the whole episode has certainly made me question the ephemeral nature of so much of our present day communication. Rather different challenges there for future biographers!

Launches - and a relaunch!

This has to be the longest gap between posts since I started this blog. Summer has definitely given way to autumn, the mornings are dark and chilly and the evenings are fast drawing in. Health problems have plagued the family for the past couple of months; life has been very out of kilter and hence writing has too. But something like normal service has now been resumed and will hopefully be maintained!

As well as getting to grips with quite a backlog of work, this last week has seen two very enjoyable trips out for book launches. My Catchword colleague Pam Keevil launched her latest novel Wild Girls (Black Pear Press) on Sunday at Stonehouse Court. Pam writes with such a light touch about some very relevant, very topical issues - coercive control for example in this story of two women from quite different cultures who both face challenges on many fronts. As one reviewer wrote, it's a "warm-hearted book about old troubles and new beginnings" - and well worth a read.

Then last night saw the launch of  A Century of Poetry - 100 Poems for Searching the Heart by the poet and ex-archbishop Rowan Williams at Llantilio Pertholey. One of his reviewers commented that "you could spend a lifetime absorbing" this anthology; it's far from being a conventional religious or devotional text and there's a huge variety of poems in it, each with a fascinating commentary by Rowan Williams. There's the work of Jewish, Muslim and Buddhist poets, of agnostics and atheists; some poems are amusing, others deeply moving, but what they all have in common is their ability to unsettle, to make the reader question, look further. Two of my favourite poets - U. A. Fanthorpe and Charles Causley - feature alongside many I haven't met before but look forward to getting to know. As another reviewer puts it "each poem ... is a door ajar, which Rowan Williams nudges open, inviting us in" - there are lots of rooms to explore.

Writing to Heal

A big thank you to everyone who made last weekend such a good experience at Ty Newydd. Writing to Heal - a big task in a short weekend, but one that Damian Gorman and Patrick Jones handled sensitively and effectively, and made fun too for the eleven of us there. And, once again, great weather for the weekend - good enough to swim in the sea, walk by the river, sit out in the garden. I can't believe that I'll be so lucky again on another visit next month.

Over the years Ty Newydd has become very special to me. The courses I've attended there, the people I've met, the opportunities that the peaceful but stimulating atmosphere of the house has afforded - they've all contributed so much to my writing. As did all residential centres, Ty Newydd suffered in the pandemic but is now firmly back on its feet. It's a real privilege to spend time there.

Yr Hen Iaith

To say it was a surprise is the understatement of the year; when I first heard that I had won the Foundation Learners Prize for Composition at the National Eisteddfod I was convinced it was a mistake. It was for a piece I had written and submitted before the pandemic which I had assumed had disappeared for good. But last week in Tregaron - on one of the days when it didn't rain! - I was overjoyed to receive the award from Jeremy Miles, the Welsh minister for education, on Maes D. I've been fortunate to win writing prizes in the past but this, for a few hundred words in yr hen iaith (the old language), the language of my grandparents, means more to me than anything.

In the excellent art exhibition at the Eisteddfod was one very striking piece - My Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau (the Welsh national anthem) worked in soil, slate and coal dust, appearing as if weathered on a grave stone.  What a stark warning that what you don't use, you may well lose. Thank heavens that, after some rocky years in the mid 20th century, the language is enjoying a great resurgence. J.R.R. Tolkien wrote that "Welsh is of this soil, this island, the senior language of the men of Britain and Welsh is beautiful." I couldn't agree with him more.