The Flight to Wilder Lands

When I half-promised a Tuesday blog post last week, I’d forgotten to factor in that I was going to be off the grid at the time, so that’s why we’re here on a suspiciously un-Tuesday time of the week. I have a decent excuse this time, though – I went on a Writer’s Retreat to Boscastle, with some others on my old uni course!

I had to take the first half of my bus journey alone, which became the cause of much anxiety on the week leading up to my departure. I managed to not get lost or murdered, though, which was fine. Liberating, even. To think that I might have cancelled the trip on this fear alone is, retrospectively, absurd, but too much time in your comfort zone can result in the mundane appearing so.

After journeying through the Cornish wilderness, I arrived at the hostel which I’ve been to twice before, and was immediately at home with the heated floors, the five comfy sofas that face each other, the beds with their overly thick blankets and the absence of phone signal. On my first trip there four years ago, there wasn’t even any WiFi, and I’ve continued to keep up the liberating feeling of being off the grid by simply stowing my phone and other devices away.

This annual fleeing to the countryside is actually organised by my University for my Creative Writing course, and, luckily for me, graduates are invited too. I initially planned on going there simply to meet and catch up with two of my old friends from the year above, but whilst in Boscastle I had the pleasurable experience of meeting and befriending those still on the course, and the thirteen of us spent much of our time just talking to each other. I thought my days of meeting like-minded Creative Writing students through the university were over, but I was treated to one last helping of friendship for which I am very thankful.

Whilst this has been one of my favourite trips to Boscastle, it’s also been one of my least productive. I wrote a grand total of two sentences, one of which I deleted. What I instead spent most of my time doing was a mixture of either chatting, reading (the end of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows and the mixed bag that was The Cursed Child), walking and playing Mario Kart 7 with others. And to be honest, I don’t really regret my lack of productivity due to this.

One thing this trip has opened my eyes to is how long it’s been since I’ve met new people. I’m incredibly grateful for those I already have in my life, but as somebody who is not a social person, it’s easy to forget how much one can learn about oneself and grow in self-review from simply meeting someone new. As somebody who doesn’t drink nor live close to their friends or the city centre, it’s easy to fall into a routine where I see the same faces all the time. Coming home from Boscastle has emphasised the negative sides of my current life somewhat intensely. Life is about staying up for 30 hours so you could talk through the night, not remaining comfortably stagnant at home.

Boscastle

I’ve always lived in the city, so my visit to Boscastle was a nice change.

I’m not stranger to quaint villages such as this one; some of my relatives live in the middle of nowhere, and my sister got married in a pleasant little village called Stedham. This is, however, my first time staying at a village without family. I’m on a Writer’s Retreat with some friends at university, so I’m not exactly on my own, but having to pay attention to getting my own food and certain other necessities within this one village is a new experience.

There are certain signifiers I keep pointing out that remind me I’m in Cornwall. For instance, it seems that the only general store in Boscastle is a small Spar corner shop, and one of its main advertising points is the possession of an ATM that doesn’t charge you when you withdraw money. I’ve not seen another cash machine so far. Other signifiers include the sheer friendliness of everyone we encounter, everyone’s familiarity with each other, the word “Cornwall” being proudly plastered on most shop signs and the uneven ratio of the amount of tourists to the amount of locals wondering around. (Tourists win that one.)

One of the intentional features of this Writer’s Retreat is the lack of Wi-Fi and less-than-abundant phone signal. I mentioned in a previous blog post that being away from Wi-Fi for too long incites a strange loneliness in me, but that hasn’t been the case during my stay here. Or, so far, at least; I’ve only been here for a day. I’ll be posting this when I return. I think it’s the communal atmosphere of the hostel that prevents the Wi-Fi withdrawal. It’s relaxing and calm, but talkative and fun all at once. I’ve read a lot of the fifth Song of Ice and Fire book already, but there’s been Mario Kart 7 tournaments, a walk along the coast and just general nitter-natter. It’s cosy and comfortable and I wish it didn’t have to end.

We went on a walk at one point, out to the cliffs. The only place in the whole of Boscastle that had halfway decent phone signal was on the cliffs, so that was one reason we went there. Mostly, though, it was to brave the fresh air and hope that the sun doesn’t take vengeance on me for shunning it. It was nice. The waves crashing up against the rocks below reminded me of cream running down a portion of chocolate gateau. This may seem like a random observation to make, but chocolate gateau reminds me of when I was younger, when I took trips up to my nans’.

At one point, a third year read out a piece of writing for their dissertation. This was when I noticed that I still have a lot of work to do as a writer. Many people say that they have the problem wherein they abuse the show-don’t-tell rule by telling the reader too much. I’m entirely the opposite; I overestimate people’s imaginations and write my stories as if they were scripts instead. I think this has come from lack of practice, but quite often a character will pop up out of nowhere with no description but plenty of dialogue. I’ve found a frighteningly large number of times in which I hardly establish setting at all. This third year student, however, had perfected the balance between showing and telling and reminded me where I was going wrong.

I’m back home, now. I never quite finished this blog post, and reading back over it makes me want to go back to Boscastle. I feel like I’m living in a bit of a rut at the moment, and Boscastle was a brilliant way of getting out of that. But here I am again.

I miss the youth hostel. It had heated flooring.