And why Youlgreave is the perfect spot to do it!

I haven’t blogged for a while but there’s a good reason for this – I’ve been writing. And I took myself off on my very own writer’s retreat to do so.

Not an organised retreat though. The idea of going on such a thing strikes terror in me.  I mean the sort of jaunt where you stay somewhere for a week, spend all day writing – either alone or in facilitated groups – then mingle with other writers in the evenings. The prospect of being confined with a bunch of strangers for several days and having to engage with them sparks a social anxiety that would probably inhibit my writing. To me, the concept of retreat implies solitude.

That said, there’d be plenty of human interest around for inspiration, and indeed writers retreats themselves have proven to be rich settings for fiction – take Tamara Drewe for example. There’s also a horror movie called The Writers Retreat.

But I do like the idea of withdrawing from the daily routine to write, so headed off for a (more or less) solitary stint in the Peak District to do just that. In the daytimes it was me and Max – the dog. In the evenings, JP – my other half –  joined us after work. 

We stayed in Youlgreave, a delightful spot a few miles from Bakewell. It’s what a I call a proper village – it has three pubs, a 12th century church, a youth hostel, a post office and bakery plus lots of wonderful walks on the doorstep. Once you’re there you don’t need a car. 

Youlgreave was once dubbed the ‘most misspelt village’ with around 50 variants to the name. Now just two official spellings remain, Youlgreave and Youlgrave, although locals call it ‘Pommy’ – don’t ask me why.

A short walk from the village centre is the Limestone Way which runs along the River Bradford. It’s a peaceful spot with a series of ponds and waterfalls which are a haven for wildlife including brown trout, king fisher dippers and grey wagtails.

There’s even a bathing pool!

Close by the Bradford intersects with the River Lathkill and there’s a circular walk which brings you back at the north end of the village.

Max and I walked for half the day (whichever half it wasn’t raining) and I spent the other half in the cottage writing, with Max my muse. By the end of the week, I’d completed 17,000 words.

Like many writers, left to my own devices at home, I’ll find endless excuses for procrastination. There’s always stuff to tidy, sort out, cook, wash up, emails to send, admin to complete etc etc. (I don’t know why we writers do this, as most of us absolutely love writing.) But away from home, without undone chores tugging at your sense of guilt, it’s easier to just get on with it.

The idea of retreating from the world seems to have its origins in religion. Nuns and monks, who have already withdrawn into their monasteries, apparently go to other monasteries on retreat. There’s a Cistercian monastery called Mount St Bernard Abbey in Leicestershire I used to stay in from time to time to get away from it all. There was something about the silence, the stillness of the place I found intensely healing. I’m told the monks have just started brewing their own Trappist beer – so maybe it’s time for another visit.

There’s a fine tradition of writers seeking out retreat. Oscar Wilde, when he came out of Reading jail, apparently wanted to go on a retreat with the Jesuits, but they wouldn’t let him. 

Perhaps the gathering at Villa Diodati in Switzerland, where Lord Byron, Shelley, Mary Shelley, and others famously convened in 1816, was a sort of writers’ retreat. Confined to barracks by torrential rain and apocalyptic storms across Europe, they set themselves the task of writing something spooky. Thus Frankenstein’s monster was born. 

Last weekend, I took myself off to another idyll. This wasn’t so much of a retreat, more a research trip. The novella I’m currently working on is set partly in Bath, near where I grew up, and where I went to school. So I wandered round those iconic Georgian streets, notebook in hand, observing and remembering.

I suppose the very act of writing is a sort of retreat. We withdraw into ourselves to do it. And today, I retreated to another favourite writing spot, upstairs in ‘Spoons, fuelled by a £1.30 refillable latte. There, I arrived at the ending for the novella. I now have all the words for a first draft, just not in the right order.