Carrying on my take on events at the above festival. If you remember, I was hanging around in the bar of the Penzance Arts Club waiting for the lunch I had just ordered, along with another 50 people and of course, the one and only Patrick Gale.
Looking around the room, which had now been opened up to incorporate the bar area, the noise coming from the fifty or so people was incredible. Everyone appeared very happy and relaxed. I spotted Patrick (apologies for informality but as I have seven of his books I think I’m entitled!) surrounded by several women each trying to entertain him with her wit.
I was relaxing too and amused myself by critiquing the outfits being worn by both the men and women. Many were quite flamboyant, colourful flouncy pieces nudged the elbows of the simple chic, and current fashion stood alongside the resurrected vintage. From blue jeans to blue toe nails to silk jackets, everything went together. Chunky jewellery draped many a neck and wrist, wild hairstyles and scarves wrapped various parts of the body, and a few sets of red braces held up crumpled linen trousers; the latter being men.
I felt quite dowdy in my plain navy top and trousers with navy/white scarf completing the naval effect. I wanted to shout, ‘look at my shoes, they’re cherry pink! How many people are wearing cherry pink leather shoes today??’ I had bought them in a defiant mood on a certain birthday to ward off signs of ‘getting on’. But I didn’t shout and no one noticed.
Follow me tomorrow as lunch is served and Patrick speaks as we eat our crumble.
PP
Tuesday, 24 August 2010
Monday, 23 August 2010
Day 3 of the very first Penzance Literary Festival.
Hello again,
After the nerves and experience of the poetry evening I opted for a less stressful day on Friday with the emphasis on spoiling myself. I was going to be pampered, not with hot towels, mudpacks or soggy seaweed, but with all things bookish. Heaven.
I took the day off work, dressed up and went into Penzance for a 10am tour of Morrab Library. Founded in 1818, it is one of only 19 independent libraries in the UK and is in a large Victorian mansion standing within Morrab Gardens.
Not having lived in the area long, I wasn’t aware of this particular library, I had been using the local council-run one so I took the opportunity to have a guided tour by a member and volunteer who knew the history well. Myself and six others went from room to room where books lined the walls from floor to ceiling. I relaxed in the peace and quiet, sunshine poured into each room through the huge windows and I had to resist the need to sit at one of the antique tables and empty my soul onto paper.
The ambience transported me back to the library at school and to Mr Ewing the Librarian. I thought he had the best job in all the world and wanted to be a Librarian too, but such roles were considered too lofty for a young girl from a small country village where priority was for planting, tending and harvesting the crops; and if you was female, making the snap – copious amounts of tea, sandwiches and cake.
Now, all these years later I desire not to look after the books but strive to write one. Marvelling at the thousands of books in that special place has inspired me to aim to have my book on the Victorian shelves of Morrab; I’m sure they could find space for just one more.
Reluctantly I left Morrab Library and the friendly members, particularly Annabelle Read, the only employed Librarian, all other jobs and duties are performed by member volunteers; I think it’s time I took out a subscription.
I walked quickly across town in the summer rain to the Arts Club where there was to be a talk by author Lilian Harry: ‘Doing your Homework: Research for Writing.’ The talk was being held in the same room as the poetry evening, being in the small space again, packed with an assortment of chairs and sofas, brought back the goose-bumps. Lilian’s books are mostly about the years before and after the second world war so she is certainly experienced in researching.
The amount of research and the lengths she went to was very interesting and demonstrated how one thing can lead to another. How a book plan can change and evolve as more details comes to light. The ladies in the audience and myself hung on her every word and many questions were asked at the end. I liked her ordinariness and down to earth attitude, and while it has taken many years for her to become a successful writer, she encouraged us with wise words and many interesting anecdotes. Her talk was occasionally punctuated by the Arts Club cat who decided to try everyone’s laps for comfort.
By now it was 12.30 and time to switch to lunch mode. Tea and coffee cups were taken away and glasses of chilled white wine replaced them. I had never been to a literary lunch before, it sounded rather grand and the only reason I was braving it on my own was because the guest of honour and speaker was the author Patrick Gale. I have read several of his books, including the most popular of the moment, the best seller, ‘Notes from an Exhibition’, about which he was going to take questions after lunch.
I tried to look nonchalant reading through Lilian’s handout notes while sipping the chilled wine and wishing I’d had lemonade as it had been quite some time since I’d had my porridge and I was feeling slightly squiffy (not a word of mine usually but it seemed appropriate for the company I was currently in.) A stressed waitress came to take my order, to be safe I chose the soup and the lemon sole though later I would regret my choices as the soup was laced with chillis and the sole with bones.
to be continued ... see you tomorrow.
PP
After the nerves and experience of the poetry evening I opted for a less stressful day on Friday with the emphasis on spoiling myself. I was going to be pampered, not with hot towels, mudpacks or soggy seaweed, but with all things bookish. Heaven.
I took the day off work, dressed up and went into Penzance for a 10am tour of Morrab Library. Founded in 1818, it is one of only 19 independent libraries in the UK and is in a large Victorian mansion standing within Morrab Gardens.
Not having lived in the area long, I wasn’t aware of this particular library, I had been using the local council-run one so I took the opportunity to have a guided tour by a member and volunteer who knew the history well. Myself and six others went from room to room where books lined the walls from floor to ceiling. I relaxed in the peace and quiet, sunshine poured into each room through the huge windows and I had to resist the need to sit at one of the antique tables and empty my soul onto paper.
The ambience transported me back to the library at school and to Mr Ewing the Librarian. I thought he had the best job in all the world and wanted to be a Librarian too, but such roles were considered too lofty for a young girl from a small country village where priority was for planting, tending and harvesting the crops; and if you was female, making the snap – copious amounts of tea, sandwiches and cake.
Now, all these years later I desire not to look after the books but strive to write one. Marvelling at the thousands of books in that special place has inspired me to aim to have my book on the Victorian shelves of Morrab; I’m sure they could find space for just one more.
Reluctantly I left Morrab Library and the friendly members, particularly Annabelle Read, the only employed Librarian, all other jobs and duties are performed by member volunteers; I think it’s time I took out a subscription.
I walked quickly across town in the summer rain to the Arts Club where there was to be a talk by author Lilian Harry: ‘Doing your Homework: Research for Writing.’ The talk was being held in the same room as the poetry evening, being in the small space again, packed with an assortment of chairs and sofas, brought back the goose-bumps. Lilian’s books are mostly about the years before and after the second world war so she is certainly experienced in researching.
The amount of research and the lengths she went to was very interesting and demonstrated how one thing can lead to another. How a book plan can change and evolve as more details comes to light. The ladies in the audience and myself hung on her every word and many questions were asked at the end. I liked her ordinariness and down to earth attitude, and while it has taken many years for her to become a successful writer, she encouraged us with wise words and many interesting anecdotes. Her talk was occasionally punctuated by the Arts Club cat who decided to try everyone’s laps for comfort.
By now it was 12.30 and time to switch to lunch mode. Tea and coffee cups were taken away and glasses of chilled white wine replaced them. I had never been to a literary lunch before, it sounded rather grand and the only reason I was braving it on my own was because the guest of honour and speaker was the author Patrick Gale. I have read several of his books, including the most popular of the moment, the best seller, ‘Notes from an Exhibition’, about which he was going to take questions after lunch.
I tried to look nonchalant reading through Lilian’s handout notes while sipping the chilled wine and wishing I’d had lemonade as it had been quite some time since I’d had my porridge and I was feeling slightly squiffy (not a word of mine usually but it seemed appropriate for the company I was currently in.) A stressed waitress came to take my order, to be safe I chose the soup and the lemon sole though later I would regret my choices as the soup was laced with chillis and the sole with bones.
to be continued ... see you tomorrow.
PP
The very first Penzance Literary Festival - Poetry Evening
In a small room at Penzance Arts Club on Wednesday last, the first evening of the five-day festival, about 40 people gathered to listen to the invited local poets - Moira Andrew, Jenny Hamlett, Bob Devereux - their poems were diverse: sad, funny, thought provoking; I drank in every one.
After a short break there followed an open mic. session, organised and compered by Diana Dixon. Eighteen people had booked a 5 minute slot, I was one of them. I have never read my poetry to an audience before so I was curious as to how it would go, and at what point my stomach would land in my throat. I was number 14 on the list which gave me time to see how it should be done, or not as the case may be. I refused a glass of wine for a sensible option in the hope that being a good girl would help my brief performance go more smoothly; I was having enough problems coping with the new prescription in my new swish glasses.
Finally my number was called. A lady sat in the front row with a stopwatch as instructed by Diana, I found this inhibiting but proceeded in the knowledge that my trusty husband had timed me the night before. The room fell silent as I started with an introduction to set the scene. I squinted here and there as I tried to focus through the new specs. at the same time trying to take a confident stance while holding my book at an angle so that I could spread my words and voice across the room, using the book only as a prompt; I secretly thanked my lucky stars that I had had the sense to type the words in 14pt bold; next time I may try braille.
I received an enthusiastic applause and encouraging comments afterwards, along with an invitation 'do come again'. Diana said, looking at my posh black leather-look A5 hard-backed book, that she hadn't realised I'd been published. I turned a shade of red and said, 'oh only a couple', which is true.
If you would like to read my first publicly-read poems then please take a look on my website which I'm constructing as I go along.
Tomorrow I'll let you know what happened on Day 3 of the festival.
Thanks for visiting,
PP
After a short break there followed an open mic. session, organised and compered by Diana Dixon. Eighteen people had booked a 5 minute slot, I was one of them. I have never read my poetry to an audience before so I was curious as to how it would go, and at what point my stomach would land in my throat. I was number 14 on the list which gave me time to see how it should be done, or not as the case may be. I refused a glass of wine for a sensible option in the hope that being a good girl would help my brief performance go more smoothly; I was having enough problems coping with the new prescription in my new swish glasses.
Finally my number was called. A lady sat in the front row with a stopwatch as instructed by Diana, I found this inhibiting but proceeded in the knowledge that my trusty husband had timed me the night before. The room fell silent as I started with an introduction to set the scene. I squinted here and there as I tried to focus through the new specs. at the same time trying to take a confident stance while holding my book at an angle so that I could spread my words and voice across the room, using the book only as a prompt; I secretly thanked my lucky stars that I had had the sense to type the words in 14pt bold; next time I may try braille.
I received an enthusiastic applause and encouraging comments afterwards, along with an invitation 'do come again'. Diana said, looking at my posh black leather-look A5 hard-backed book, that she hadn't realised I'd been published. I turned a shade of red and said, 'oh only a couple', which is true.
If you would like to read my first publicly-read poems then please take a look on my website which I'm constructing as I go along.
Tomorrow I'll let you know what happened on Day 3 of the festival.
Thanks for visiting,
PP
Sunday, 15 August 2010
Pendeen Lighthouse
Standing beside the lighthouse at Pendeen Cliffs this morning, watching the sea swells and the various crops of rocks around, reminded me of the importance of the lighthouses around the coast and of course the RNLI.I was also reminded of the Penlee Lifeboat disaster on 19 December, 1981 when eight RNLI volunteer men lost their lives aboard the Solomon Browne while trying to save others. Tonight, as I write, there is the annual service of thanksgiving taking place by the harbour in the beautiful village of Mousehole where all eight men came from. Each one had been carefully selected for their skills, but crucially only one man from each family was chosen.
It was brilliant sunshine this morning, visitors by the score making their way along the coast path and across the fields down to a nearby cove to enjoy themselves, I pondered how the weather must have been on that night 29 years ago, and on all those terrible nights before and since when men have lost their lives; it was difficult to imagine on such a glorious day.
Living in Cornwall makes you have a deep respect for the sea and the dangers. Lighthouses have always fascinated me and now even more as I live so close to so many. Like the brave men of the RNLI they save lives as they shine the lights from their strategic vantage points.
Those brave men of the RNLI don't need this small act of remembering from me because they will never, ever be forgotten as the gathering 29 years later on Mousehole quay tonight testifies. To read more, please go to: http://www.cornwalls.co.uk/Mousehole/penleelifeboat.htm
Tuesday, 10 August 2010
Contemplation ...
I called in at the supermarket on my way to work this morning. It was just after 7am, I was still waking up and contemplating the day ahead and all I had to do.
I joined the short queue at the till with my pint of milk, in front of me was a young man, late teens, he put his packages onto the conveyor, a Mars bar and a pregnancy-test kit; he had far more than me to contemplate today.
PP
I joined the short queue at the till with my pint of milk, in front of me was a young man, late teens, he put his packages onto the conveyor, a Mars bar and a pregnancy-test kit; he had far more than me to contemplate today.
PP
Sunday, 1 August 2010
It's raining. We are having a new lounge carpet fitted. We are to clear the room completely. Small cottage. Husband's Plan B is put into action. Testing of patience ensues.
Plan A was to move all items either into the small back garden or out of the front door into the lane, as you enter our lounge directly from outside.
Plan B is to dismantle bed to make room for dismantled dining table and anything else we can haul up the stairs. Television and accessories are squeezed into bathroom and dog basket into the bath. CD rack and contents are in the shed and the couch is under a tarpaulin outside the front door. Recently acquired heirloom, great-grandmother's oak dresser, now stands in the galley kitchen, leaving just enough room to put the kettle on for the carpet fitter. All done!
So where am I? Tucked in the corner of our spare room by my desk, surrounded by all manner of small items from the lounge, but I'm happy, I can operate my computer and Max (our Tibetan Terrier) is happy too, sitting under the desk at my feet. We are cosy, Classic FM drowns out the sounds of the fitting downstairs of our new striped green carpet, and I'm inspired to write, what more can a hungry writer ask for. Another new carpet?
PP
Plan A was to move all items either into the small back garden or out of the front door into the lane, as you enter our lounge directly from outside.
Plan B is to dismantle bed to make room for dismantled dining table and anything else we can haul up the stairs. Television and accessories are squeezed into bathroom and dog basket into the bath. CD rack and contents are in the shed and the couch is under a tarpaulin outside the front door. Recently acquired heirloom, great-grandmother's oak dresser, now stands in the galley kitchen, leaving just enough room to put the kettle on for the carpet fitter. All done!
So where am I? Tucked in the corner of our spare room by my desk, surrounded by all manner of small items from the lounge, but I'm happy, I can operate my computer and Max (our Tibetan Terrier) is happy too, sitting under the desk at my feet. We are cosy, Classic FM drowns out the sounds of the fitting downstairs of our new striped green carpet, and I'm inspired to write, what more can a hungry writer ask for. Another new carpet?
PP
Writing on the go.
Unbeknown to me until last week, my husband took this photo one day last winter. I was staggered to see I look eight months pregnant, which would be a miracle I assure you, and I immediately threatened him if he showed it to anyone!
But then I remembered what I was studying. As you can see, forever my notebook to hand, I had stumbled across something on the beach. The beach is Porthcurno in Cornwall, it is one of the loveliest beaches you can imagine, white sand nudging up to a turquoise sea. Above it, on top of the cliffs stands the famous Minack Theatre, built into the side of the cliffs. Stunning.
Back to our walk across the beach. Before we continued on the coastal path, I spotted a single fresh yellow rose lying in the sand (just to the right of my stick on the photo), immediately the curious writer in me started asking questions, eventually they formed a few lines of poetry.
Who laid you there on soft white sand,
Your fragile petals falling without the sender's hand.
Are you for a friendship remembered?
Joy experienced - or in memorial?
For whatever reason, I shall record your presence here,
For whoever, when laying you down, shed a tear.
PP
If you are interested in the meaning of roses by colour go to:
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