I’m drawn to stories of living in a cottage, a bothy, a fisherman’s cabin on an island somewhere isolated and offshore where there might be a lighthouse and a few neighbours with salty histories to tell.
The protagonists have fled tempests and are hiding as they rebuild their lives. Here are stories of valour and determination, but in real life? Is that what we are like in our coastal timber house made up of bits of workmens’ cottages shipped over from Maria Island in the 1950’s?
Not really. We live in a coastal village with a shop, a pub, a café, post office and restaurant. Not the stuff of isolation and fortitude. Although – food for thought – it’s all relative, isn’t it? Sometimes it takes courage to be strong against the odds, no matter whether one lives on an isolated island with a few inhabitants, or in a city of millions…
I read this excoriating story in The Guardian illustrating that remote cottage living has a dark side and it takes immense strength to be reborn.
By comparison, our cottage life is hardly challenging. We have consistent hydro power, no need for generators, a sealed road outside the gate, streetlights and wifi. But the house also whispers little stories at every turn.
There’s my mother’s thick handwritten, leather-covered cookbook- a whole life of memories on every page. There are two little copper measuring jugs from Paris on the kitchen bench. A collection of blue and white Cornishware on various shelves. We inherited these from Mr. and Mrs. Roberts who built the house.
There’s also an old battery radio that still works well, vital if fire or flood take out the power.
On a wall in the lounge is a painting from a quirky secondhand store on the north of the island. It was painted by an artist who had passed away and was one of a number that were unfinished. It reflects part of our Swallows and Amazons life here, the kind I had as a child in the mid-1900’s and which my children then enjoyed – before the world changed and before incomers spoiled the essence of this place by simply not caring about its history and environment. For them, it becomes a party place, one they can make money from by renting out their homes as AirBnB’s.
Sad, isn’t it? It's hard not to judge, because my family has a 100 year history here and Mum and I fought battles together (Mum in her 80’s, standing up in an Appeals Tribunal in front of three judges and speaking clearly and with feeling) to protect our ocean coastlines and rivers. We were as fully invested then in what we held dear, as we are now. It’s what I call my grandson’s legacy.
Our little place has a charming story that we protect and cherish because it was conceived by the original owners, a couple who were very private and lived quietly and with grace. We live behind a high black fence with an equally high white gate, and we’re sequestered in amongst tall trees. Do we hide behind the bulwark? Perhaps. We and our little dog live solitary lives and it suits us because we thrive on peace. When family members arrive, we do family things – ride bikes together, fish off the shore, swim, go away in the boat if the weather’s fine, kayak, walk the beaches and dirt roads. Or if you are trail runners, like my son and his wife, you run for miles. And miles!
The cottage is a fertile place for the imagination. I think a lot while I hide, work and walk. I jot down ideas for stories, rough up chapters of the latest book. I cook cakes, make soup, preserves, pickles. This week, we planted potatoes, peas, fed the leeks and berries, put in rows of microgreens and sunflowers. As the weather warms, so the provender garden will fill with summer and autumn flavour.
I nurtured my meadow strip for the bees and could hear the busy hum from the willows as they worked the blossoms, and I decided I really do want a hive in the orchard. Imagine liquid gold from our own garden! We already have honey from an apiarist’s beehives on the farm, and we wonder how different the taste might be when derived from flowers, herbs and fruit trees, compared with the more powerfully fragrant native trees.
I fed the wrens, sparrows, silver-eyes, parrots and many more by topping up the bird feeder and scattering seed across the lawn. Our reward is tinkling song and ticking off the visitors in the bird book. We spied the return of the Welcome swallows – so-called because their arrival heralds the warmer weather and they charm with their aeronautic dips and dives along the beach in front of the pup – teasing, laughing at him. Thus it becomes easy to turn away from the dramas playing out everywhere else locally, nationally and internationally. To ignore the sniping and nastiness from small minds. These days, most of my battles are with the vagaries of gardening, of occasional writer’s block and to fret at the relentless spring winds that keep me out of the water. Mind you, I keep a weather eye on what else we might lose here if people become greedy…
One of my most longstanding friends has a fabulously enigmatic house just down the road. It’s filled with character, with stories, with Marimekko colour, all sequestered in a vast garden of fierce glory. It’s the kind of coastal house that means something, and where she like me, chooses to hide and get on with her own business. We are kindred spirits and talk more of gardens, books, local history and cooking than gossip and innuendo.
Hiding has its value…
Other things:
We’re in the midst of the annual spring gales and if I could hide from the wind, I would. It’s a persistent force of nature and as I have a 95% balance deficit on my right side, walking becomes a challenge. Trees wave furiously, grit sandblasts my skin, the wind roars in my ears, my eyes water and my brain is constantly reconfiguring balance as I walk. It’s similar with driving and it causes monumental tiredness. I’m sure anyone who has a vestibular disease will understand and agree. Wind is not for sissies when one’s vestibular is shot!
Nevertheless, Pupsicle and I walk twice daily although he is as much challenged by the wind as me. His little ears clamp hard to his head, and he becomes a touch anxious, unusual to see in this chap; perhaps he senses my angst. At the moment we call him Punkhead because he’s in need of a proper Jack Russell groom. Pulled hair, not clipped hair. It would be nice to see him looking as beautiful as the 2025 Crufts JRT ‘Ana’. See the comparison? Sigh…
We were returning from a faraway beach walk (still windy) yesterday and we spotted a massive flotilla of dolphins just offshore. They were on a mission, pushing bait fish before them, rounding them up and driving them into rocky shallows. They were joined by my spirit animal, a sea eagle, and there was much threshing and feeding until the dolphins began to calm and the sea eagle flew to a branch in a tree overhanging the shore. It was a phenomenal thing to watch. Mostly dolphins play with us when we’re out in the boat – languid, gentle and sometimes cheeky. This week we were privileged to see the natural order in operation. Nowhere for the baitfish to hide, sadly. But it’s no wonder I want our coast and our oceans protected.
At ballet this week, a friend and myself took a challenge to lift our legs higher in the grand battement. Amazingly my septuagenarian limbs consistently reached the height of the barre, but I dreaded the physical fall-out, although ultimately it wasn’t bad at all. Sometimes at ballet I try to hide – the end barre, not looking in the mirror, the back row. Why? Perhaps a story for another time…
Tomorrow, I’m going to make a
from Sally Frawley. I’ve made it before and it’s deliciously moist, tart and more-ish. You can make it with oranges rather than mandarins if you prefer and I ice it with mandarin or orange icing. I’ve yet to meet someone who didn’t love it. Try it and let me know what you think…
This is the week where I hope to (almost) finish the latest novel – I have the last chapters rolling round in my head on a cinematic loop. It would suit me to hide away as I buckle down. Don’t you think that any one of these idiosyncratic houses would suit, if not my own?
https://www.houseandgarden.co.uk/gallery/blue-cabin-by-the-sea-scotland
https://thespaces.com/fishermans-cottage-cornwall-for-sale/
https://www.myscandinavianhome.com/2014/06/acharming-fishermans-cottage-on-swedens.html
Mostly I hide because when I was young I was subject to bullying, to gossip and to innuendo. I found that it was easier to withdraw and do one’s own thing. Hiding away, becoming self-sufficient and being happy in one’s own company has become a lived experience and gives me a sense of peace and calm. I could change, I suppose. Those in the know would say it’s bad for one’s for one’s health because one needs to socialise. Possibly, but for myself, I do what’s best. Perhaps that’s an article for another time…
Music this week? Tough to find what fits. Not perfect, but it will do:
Oh, PS: Remember my pup-damaged journal? I made a slip cover for the back corner and had to cut off the elastic that kept the journal closed and which was embedded in the cover binding. I leave you with the result. Heaven’s knows where he’ll chew next!
Island life is my fantasy too, funny because I’m already living an island life. Seems as I move thru life even this island is becoming too much for me.
Although some find it a bit too gothic, I have always loved Daphne du Maurier's Rebecca with its bunk houses by the sea and the atmospheric backdrop of living that way. So,(of course!) really relate to all you say here Prue. Beyond impressed about your novel too - you're amazing. Oh and if the Pupsicle is a bit more Billy Idol than you'd prefer so be it lol! I love that scraggy look (on a Terrier, at least ha!) Suits him. Always look forward to this little dip into your tranquil, fascinating and thoughtful days, Prue. (Cornish ware! Love!) xo