My life is rich with opportunity and, because of this fullness, writing has been put on the shelf to gather dust for a while. Last year, during February half-term, I went north-east to visit my brother and comb my manuscript with a second opinion – so helpful. I restructured the work and breathed new life into stale and stodgy moments of the first 23,000 words. But, no more.

On the day I left, my husband suggested my brother and I should think about running some writing retreats. I dismissed the idea. The only running my brother and I would be doing together was most probably away from responsibility to do with running anything! Still, he planted a seed.

Twelve months later, this February half-term, my brother and I went away for a writing retreat together, in beautiful Leominster.

And we were not alone. We were joined by an incredible writer from South Wales who I had met on a Wye Valley Writing Retreat an number of years ago. She brought delightful inspiration and challenge to our time together.

“What do you hope to achieve over these four days?”, being her first question to us.

So, we each worked on our own projects for the majority of the day and then came together for food and an evening writing challenge, which we had to fulfill in half an hour – alarms set! On the first night, that meant writing something suggested by three random words from a book. These were: Conflict, It and Previous. On the second day, we had mosied around the numerous antique shops in Leominster, for the afternoon, and secretly chosen an object to write about. Antiques and objects were overwhelming, but with only half and hour to write, I had to make a snappy decision about which it would be and dive in. Sometimes the things you find hardest become the greatest victories. I felt that with this. On the third night, we had to write a dialogue as a play for three characters and then take a part and read it between us. Such fun! Our final challenge was to play a game of Sedecordle and include the resulting sixteen words in a piece of prose. I was the only one to get all sixteen words in, but it was a daft bit of writing!

Wisdom, inspiration, experience and expertise found their place in the beauty of sharing. Time set aside to focus, along with permission giving purpose to write made all of us fruitful. It was a time to retreat in order to advance our writing and I felt I have regained momentum again with my work, having been allowed to wallow in it for a concentrated time.

The Leominster Retreaters!

Please check out the work of Bobbie Allen: https://typewriterpress202.wixsite.com/website and Seymour Jacklin: https://www.bordersofsleep.com/ They are both wonderful writers.

I leave you with my short story, inspired by a small object found in an antique shop. The day after writing, I acquired it!

Alistair knew that the distance between the opening of the pipe and the base of the wall was the same length as his thumb. He would lie on his belly and watch the spider build its web in the pipe, when the sun shone. The wind would ruffle the threads and distort the pattern, but the spider kept working, just like his Dad. Whatever the weather, his father worked on.  

Alistair knew that it was thirty-nine steps from the gate to the stile on the pathway to school. Every day, it was the same. He would count them and when he learnt to count to a hundred his teacher commended him and brought him out before the rest of the class. He felt special. He felt clever. 

Alistair knew there were three hundred and sixty-five days in a year, apart from those leap years when February threw in an extra day. He felt sorry for Marie who was born on February 29^th and never knew when to celebrate her birthday. It had just been a cosy three until Marie came along and she was never well, but he loved her all the same. Mum said he was a great help. 

Alistair counted the taps on the door that day his uncle came and everything changed. The rhythm still repeats in his head. Tap, tap … tap, TAP, tap, the emphasis falling on the penultimate tap. His uncle Thomas blew into the room calling for Helen like a banshee and she ran with him, but there was nothing that could be done. His Dad had bled his best and given his all. There was no life left in him. A rogue saw was all it took, an accidental slice. 

Alistair knew how highly everyone viewed his father’s skill. Over three hundred came to his funeral, including the squire. Uncle Thomas wrapped a corner of his coat around Marie and held her close in the cold of the pew, while Alistair held his mother’s hand. His was almost the same size as hers. 

At the wake, Uncle Thomas took him aside.  

“This is for you.” He said.  

A small leather pouch lay in his hand. 

“Thank you.” He put it in his pocket. 

The church clock struck three. Alistair listened. He counted his steps all the way home with his hand resting in his pocket, wrapped around the leather pouch. It was a little longer than his thumb. 

When he got home, Marie was crying and Mum was cuddling her.  

“Look what Uncle Thomas gave me.” He said to distract her, pulling the pouch from his pocket. 

His mother gasped. 

“That was your Father’s” she said. “His father gave it to him.” 

“What is it?” Marie asked. 

He unclipped the popper and gently pulled out a small ruler folded against itself in several segments. 

“He used it to measure every piece of work.” Mum said.