Sample chapter from A Writer's Year
Welcome to a place where the only sound is that of footsteps across floorboards and the ‘shhh-tru’ of pages being turned. Where lives are bound to silent wonderment and worlds open up in the palms of one’s hands. Welcome, to the timeless zone of the bookshop.
I’m writing this in the corner of a bookstore in Hay-on-Wye, the mecca for book-lovers worldwide. The bookseller has given me permission to sit here and write, so long as I agree to purchase a book before I leave. It’s a good deal, especially as I’ve spied an 1897 first edition of The Idle Thoughts of an Idle Fellow by Jerome K. Jerome. I’m something of an idle thinker, but not an idle fellow. Often you’ll see me in an apparent state of laziness, gazing into nowhere as I reach into my thoughts for inspiration, but I’m being far from lazy. As a writer, I’m always writing or thinking of what to write. Such is the creative gift – and curse – of a mind that’s always switched on and set to full volume. This is why bookshops are great for writers: they’re quiet places, free from distractions, and only a page turn away from new ideas.
As someone who’s equally passionate about reading as writing, I know that the flow of words into one’s mind helps to swell one’s creative output. It’s like an exchange system between authors. They fill one’s artistic reservoir, grease one’s inventive cogs, and before you know it you’re writing full pelt as the writing machine spins into action. So I’m always interested to see bookshelves belonging to writers. What books do they own? How many of them have they read? Which ones look like they’ve been read most often? What’s the ratio between books read and books written? And that’s just the numbers game. The real interest is in seeing what books they read. On what subjects, by which authors, in which genres and in which eras? Do they store them neatly in pristine bookcases, like lawyers showcasing their knowledge, or are they stacked higgledy-piggledy in an ‘always to hand’ fashion? Whichever it is, one can never have enough books, or reading time, or writing time. Such is the uncontainable pleasure of words and the magic of a good story.
One’s library and writing space says a great deal about us. It inspires and encourages us into action. How great it must be to have a book of our own to sit alongside the tomes of our favourite authors? This is the not-so-secret desire of the would-be author, especially when the book is stored in the perfect writing place. The best writing place I’ve ever seen was discovered ten years ago.
Back in 1998, my friend Phinehas was looking to move from his townhouse in Birmingham to a ‘writer’s retreat’ in the Welsh countryside. He’d grown tired of city life and wanted to live “out of other people’s hair”. He craved the simple life, but not a meagre one. A man of comfortable means, he wanted a property with moderate luxury and a twist of elegance – such as a Victorian sporting lodge on a rural estate. Somewhere he could forget the stresses of life and surrender himself to the movements of his pen.
Phinehas asked me if I could help him view a ‘rather special’ house. He’d already viewed it but needed someone to help him make up his mind. I agreed, and that weekend we travelled to Wales together. Our journey took us from the West Midlands conurbation though the fruit-growing counties of Worcestershire and Herefordshire, and finally into Powys. We reached the crossroads at Rhayader (the oldest town in mid-Wales) and turned left, heading south of the town along a road that ran parallel to the River Wye. We pulled over and Phinehas said, “Okay. We’re here”. I looked through the car window to see a slate-walled single storey building that looked no more appealing than a lock-up garage.
“Is this it?” I asked. “It looks like a cross between a toll-house and an oversized bus stop.”
“Just you wait,” said Phin’.
Phinehas had been coy about the property during the drive, but now began telling me about its history. “The building,” he said, “was built in 1896 from slate destined for the dam of the Caban-coch reservoir in the Elan Valley above Rhayader. Its original purpose was to accommodate officials visiting to view the construction of the dams, but soon became used as a sporting lodge for Midland businessmen. It’s called Nantgwyllt, after the mansion house where the poet Shelley lived in 1811. The mansion was located alongside the River Claerwen in the valley above the town, but was lost beneath the waters of Caban-coch when the valley was flooded.”
“I’m beginning to see why the property appeals to you,” I replied.
“Yeah,” said Phinehas, “but it’s also located on a sharp bend in the river. There’s a salmon pool at the end of the garden.”
“The penny’s just dropped,” I said. “You like the idea of fishing from your bedroom window.”
“So-so,” said Phinehas, calmly. “But it has a more impressive feature. Just you wait and see.”
We exited Phin’s car and walked up to the front door of the property. Phin’ knocked. We waited. And waited. And waited. After an age, the door opened and a short hunch-backed old lady greeted us. She smiled and, in a soft but frail voice, apologised for the delay: “It’s the stairs y’ see; they’re too steep. This house has too many stairs. Still, I’m here now. Welcome gentleman. Please come in.”
Stairs? I thought this was a bungalow?
We entered the house and I quickly found myself clinging to a banister as I descended a dimly lit and ridiculously steep staircase that started within two feet of the front door. The stairway led to a perpendicular corridor that ran the length of the house. On one side were doors leading into the downstairs rooms; on the other was shoulder-high oak panelling with whitewashed rock above.
“House’s built right into the cliff” said the lady. “Solid it is, solid as them dams up in the valley. But oh, them wretched stairs. I’ll be glad to leave.” She proceeded to tell us that she’d lived there since before the war, but her husband had recently passed away. “Too many memories,” she said, “and too many stairs.” Her goal now was to sell the house and move to Llandrindod Wells to live with her daughter. “I’m afraid you’ll have to show yourselves around. I’ve done my stair climbing for the day. So have a look round. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.”
Phin’ and I then perused the house which, in estate agent terms, was clean but ‘in need of modernisation’. We liked its original features: oak panelling, high ceilings, ornate cornicing, carved stone fireplaces, floor-to-ceiling windows and stain-glass doors set in gothic archways. In fact it seemed like this Victorian house had barely aged since it was built. But, as you’d expect for two countryside writers, Phin’ and I were soon outside gazing at the garden and salmon pool. It was one of those places where one could stand and, while watching the swirling eddies of the river, dream away an entire day.
“Phin’,” I said, “You mentioned that I should wait and see. Well, I’m waiting, but I’m not sure if I’ve seen what I’m looking for?”
“Turn around,” he said, “and tell me what you see.”
I turned away from the river and back to the house. There it stood in all its Victorian splendour: two storeys high, built into the cliff behind, with eight windows top and bottom and a turret-style protrusion at the northern end.
“Do you remember going into the turret?” asked Phinehas.
“No,” I replied. “I remember the bedrooms and bathroom upstairs, but not a turret.”
“Then it’s time I showed you.”
We walked back up to the house and into the kitchen where the old lady was waiting.
“I suppose you want to see the writing room again?” she said to Phinehas. “Well you know where to find the door, so you’d best make your own way there. I’m not going to attempt it, not with all those stairs.”
Phinehas led me back into the corridor at the rear of the house. “What do you see?” he said.
“Four doors, some oak panelling and not enough light bulbs,” I replied.
“What about this?” he asked. He then leant gently against one of the oak panels. I heard a ‘clunk’ and the panel popped ajar. Phin’ pulled open the panel, which revealed a dark passageway carved into the rock behind. It looked cold and uninviting – like a broom cupboard for a troglodyte housemaid. Phinehas then reached inside the entrance and I heard a click as a light bulb illuminated an eight-foot length of tunnel that curved sharply to the left.
“Okay,” said Phin’, “best to duck. It’s a low ceiling, so you go first.”
I stooped and, bending my knees, shuffled into the tunnel. The slate walls felt cold and the light bulb next to my head seemed worryingly dim, as if the wiring could fail at any moment. The passageway turned to the left and I saw a steep spiral staircase carved into the rock. I climbed thirty or so steps before reaching a door at the top. I pushed it open and was immediately dazzled by sunlight. As my eyes adjusted I began to make out an octagonal room, ten feet across and covered in dust. I walked in and surveyed the scene. The door behind me formed the rear face of the octagon; on either side of the door were floor-to-ceiling bookcases – two on one side and one on the other – which contained hundreds of gilded leather-bound books; a curved leather-topped writing desk was flush to the three sides of the octagon opposite, above which were rectangular-paned leaded windows. A captain’s chair stood before the desk and on the right-hand wall was a fireplace and wood-burning stove. A burgundy red octagonal rug filled the centre of the room, around which was oak flooring.
“One could sit at that desk,” said Phinehas, who was now standing alongside me, “and survey the full panorama of the river and mountains beyond. We’re looking west, down the valley, to where the sun will set and the moon will float above a misty river.”
“Phin’, forget the view,” I said. “This room is amazing!”
“Look more closely,” said Phinehas, “and think about what you’re seeing. There’s no way any of this furniture could have been carried up here through the tunnel. It’s original, built in-situ. The desk fits flush to the wall; the bookshelves are bespoke. Even the rug is made-to-measure. And look at this chair: its back is carved with salmon, deer, acorns and oak leaves. Carved, no doubt, in this very room by a master craftsman.”
“Yes,” I said, “but look closer than that. Other than the dust everywhere, it seems like the room was vacated only this morning. There’s newspaper in the stove, books left open on the desk; there’s even a fountain pen with its cap removed. It looks like someone popped downstairs and never came back. But it’s so dusty, like no one’s been up here in decades.”
“Take a look at the newspaper in the stove. Is there a date on it?” said Phin’.
I opened the door of the wood-burner and removed one of the scrunched-up balls of paper. It was stiff and yellowing. I teased it open. There, in the top corner, was a date:
Monday 17th October 1938.
“Sixty years!” I exclaimed, “How can something be left untouched for so long?”
“The lady downstairs and her late husband,” said Phin’, “decided to leave things as they found them when they moved in. They knew that the previous owner was a writer, and this was his creative room, but they didn’t much care about it.”
“Less me guess. Something to do with the stairs?”
“Probably,” replied Phinehas. “I asked the old lady last week and she said that neither she nor her husband made any attempt to find out what the writer wrote in this room.”
“If we had more time,” I said, “we could look through the drawers in the desk, or flick through the books on the shelves, attempting to find out. But it would be a crime to disturb something that’s been left untouched for so long.”
“That’s why I brought you here,” said Phin’. “To show you this room, and for you to disturb the paper in the stove. I tried, but couldn’t do it. It just seemed so…perfect.”
“Because of that,” I replied. “You’d better buy the place.”
“I won’t be buying it,” said Phin’.
“But you’ve got to!” I replied. “This place is fabulous. It’s meant to be!”
“Sorry Fen’, it’s too close to the road.”
“But you could write anything in here. Anything at all.”
“I could, but it would be impossible for me to stop gazing at the view from the windows. I’d end up as dusty as this furniture.”
Phin’ was right. The view from the room was too great a distraction. A writer must eventually cease the flow of input before he or she ‘zones out’ and commits words to paper. At least, that was my opinion at the time.
Ten years have passed. Phinehas eventually bought a writer’s retreat in the south of France. But that house in Wales, with its secret writing room, features regularly in my dreams. To this day, every time I prepare myself to write, I close my eyes and imagine myself in that room. First I run my fingers along the books, then across the stone fireplace and finally onto the leather-topped table; I then sit down at the captain’s chair and look out through the leaded windows, across the lawns and river, and picture the sun setting behind the mountains. I sit there until words begin to flow and my pen touches the paper. And then I can begin. All thanks to that wonderful space – that secret room – full of books and dreams.