There's a row of old fishermen's cottages not far from the stretch of Manx coast where I took this photo. In an ideal world (not this one) I would own one and retreat there to do my writing. I went inside one of them recently and had a look round, so I know exactly where my desk would be positioned in relation to the wood-burning stove and tiny, briny windows.
It would be difficult to live there and not be a writer of books peopled by maritime ghosts. The woman who owned it (as if to prove my point) said that this particular row of houses was notorious, two or three hundred years ago, as the haunt of prostitutes, smugglers and brewers of illicit hooch. More than likely there are purses of doubloons behind loose bricks at the back of the fireplace, or at the very least a map of Treasure Island. It was a dark cottage - the walls were fortress-thick and wonky, with inexplicable niches carved out here and there - but with the sea glowing through every south-facing window wasn't going to bother me.
I do know, really, deep down, that I'm not going to metamorphose into some kind of Daphne Du Maurier/Herman Melville hybrid just by transporting my desk to a seaside cottage. I'd probably sit there drumming my fingers on a blank sheet of paper, my shoulders sagging from inspiration-overload. I do know. It's difficult to shake the suspicion though (especially as the composition of this final sentence has just been interrupted by my children wanting to know whether we've got any peanut butter) that all I need to be a top-notch writer is a particular kind of quiet, a particular view, and a house of a certain vintage that's mine, all mine...
No comments:
Post a Comment