While we were packing the campervan for our recent twelve-day work/leisure trip to various locations around the country I realised that I was more excited about the opportunity to write that this offered than I was about the travelling and – let’s face it – the work.
Our pitch at a campsite at Haltwhistle, Northumberland, our home for days 4-7.
I imagined how our days would be: early starts, a half-day or all-day shoot for my freelance commercial photographer husband at a different location each time, then back to the van for him to download his images and start editing. This was the part that I was excited about: while he would be busy at the back of the tiny cabin, his MacBook taking up much of the tiny folding table crammed between the sink and the sliding door, I was going to be in the passenger seat turned to face the rear, my writing notebook on my lap, blissed out in the satisfaction of I’ve-worked-hard-today fatigue, the mild effects of a small pinot grigio (or a large cup of tea, depending on the time of day) making me smile at the endless lines of words that would be pouring from my pen.
Reader, did it happen this way? No.
That promise I’d made to myself – that I’ve have time to write – remained unfulfilled. I’d packed my writing notebook – the one I’m scrawling this in right now, the one I’d hoped would within hours of our departure have had pages filled with draft after draft for Substack – but it stayed in its locker in the van.
We had our early starts from a succession of eight campsites, and yes we worked hard. My husband’s timetable had changed the week before we left: the job scheduled for Monday, the day of the Queen’s funeral, was moved to Thursday, meaning our plans for that day were scuppered. All was not lost, though: the Monday gap in the work schedule would surely be the gift of a whole day’s writing?
Reader, it wasn’t.
With access to an excellent wi-fi connection to stream the funeral on BBC iPlayer we sat together in the van to watch it: proud to be British as we marvelled at the formality and pageantry of the nation’s adieu to our departed sovereign. The footage showed London bathed in sunlight, yet in Northumberland the morning was grey and sombre.
The funeral itself being over by lunchtime, we noticed a brightening outside and decided to seize the moment to recce the location for Tuesday’s first Hadrian’s Wall shoot. ‘There’ll be no-one around – they’ll all be glued to the telly watching the procession to Windsor. And the sun’s out!’
We detached our power cable from the campsite hook-up, turned the front seats back round to face the windscreen and folded the roof down. The car park we drove to was busy: we’d underestimated the enthusiasm of solo walkers, couples and families to make the most of the Queen’s bank holiday. We watched in awe as people climbed the punishingly steep steps to reach the path to Sycamore Gap.
My husband was determined to stay put, while I was desperate to get up there. ‘Won’t be long!’ I shouted over my shoulder as I began to climb. ‘Just to the top!’
Beaming smile at the top of the climb! That tiny figure standing on the grass at the end of the wall far below me (level with halfway up my hat!) is my husband.
Five minutes later I rang him, exhilarated from the exertion. ‘Can I keep going? I mean, to the sycamore?’ We agreed to meet there – the landmark he called ‘the most photographed tree in England’. He would take the level path: no climbing for him.
The famous tree at Sycamore Gap. This path was a gruelling challenge!
It was a wonderful afternoon: not warm, but at least it was dry. I encountered lots of other walkers and even overheard a smallish child clambering down a frighteningly steep part of the path with her family asking ‘Mum, have you made a will?’ #funnynotfunny
You’ll be glad to know that for once I didn’t get lost – I simply walked along the wall. Thanks, Romans!
The sycamore snapped from the much more forgiving low path.
The following days were busy: we worked, we slept, we walked. Evenings found us tired, and September evenings left the van interior rather too dim to concentrate on a page in any case.
So, in all of this time did my writing notebook make it out of its locker? No.
Reader, I didn’t write nothing. In fact my pocket notebook became heavy with words. While I wasn’t writing writing I was making notes about everything. And reflecting now on our trip and the finished projects I didn’t achieve, I’m appreciating the value of doing, of experiencing.
Of course I could have cast half an idle eye over the Queen’s funeral while half concentrating on drafting a post for Substack. I could have stayed in the van instead of climbing those steep steps along Hadrian’s Wall and not found my wall-guided way to Sycamore Gap.
But we chose to experience things full-on, making the sort of memories that will linger longer than the twelve days we spent in our little van. Using just that Monday as an example, watching a once-in-a-lifetime royal event and seeking out the country’s most photographed tree were both priceless opportunities which needed to be taken. After all, we have to get out there to live the life we want to write about. Creative flames fizzle out with no fuel.
If I’d spent every spare moment just sitting in the van to write I would have missed out on these absolute gems of experiences:
…finding this beetle lying on its back on fallen leaves in a beautiful avenue at Clumber Park, its iridescent belly a moving pile of purple glitter as it wiggled its six legs in panic…
Woodland dor beetle - Trypocopris vernalis - I’d never seen such a pretty creepy crawly! I turned it back the right way up after I’d taken this unforgivably blurry picture.
Avenue at Clumber Park.
…in Northumberland, encountering a too-tiny-for-September hedgehog so small that I almost trod on it…
We Googled the nearest wildlife rescue, which turned out to be 36 miles away. There was no answer when we rang, and we left the baby hedgehog to take its chances where we’d found it.
…sampling my way around the cheese shop in the Yorkshire Dales and carelessly cramming my subsequent purchases into the van’s fridge so tightly that the entire contents of a large tub of supermarket coleslaw burst through its skimpy cellophane cover… (No picture. Trust me, the mess was hideous.)
…and being reminded rather late of my husband’s aversion to heights as we scrambled up a rocky waterfall in the Lake District.
Looking down from the waterfall on our walk up to Stickle Tarn, Great Langdale, Cumbria. Photograph by Jim Holden.
This weekend I have been deep in the process of writing up the scribbled notes in my pocket notebook, fleshing out those initial entries in my writing notebook – now released from its locker in the van – to perhaps become drafts for future projects. And even if they don’t, the experiences represented in those notes will certainly inform my writing.
Although I’ve been missing my writing process I have certainly recognised that getting out there into the world to experience aspects of life I don’t encounter at my desk is a wonderful starting point for any piece of work.
Reader, I’ve missed you, too. It’s nice to be back.
Love,
Rebecca
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To be honest, I was sort of waiting for you to tell us you had gotten lost (haha!) I think you made the right decision in experiencing life over writing and this post proves that. While making time for writing is great, some memories only have one chance to be made and it's best that we don't miss those opportunities. Great post and great pics as well, kudos to your hubby! :)
No truer words: “Creative flames fizzle out with no fuel”. We get so focused on the act of writing - and, yes, we need to make time for it and then actually do it - but without living, it’s likely hard for many of us to generate poetry or prose.
To be honest, I was sort of waiting for you to tell us you had gotten lost (haha!) I think you made the right decision in experiencing life over writing and this post proves that. While making time for writing is great, some memories only have one chance to be made and it's best that we don't miss those opportunities. Great post and great pics as well, kudos to your hubby! :)
No truer words: “Creative flames fizzle out with no fuel”. We get so focused on the act of writing - and, yes, we need to make time for it and then actually do it - but without living, it’s likely hard for many of us to generate poetry or prose.
(I’d be tempted to take the hedgehog home 🥹)