Debbie Young Evokes Her Dream Office (with a little help from the National Trust...)

Debbie Young, going places...

"Where do you write?" asked a very pleasant lady at a talk I gave recently to the Cheltenham Writers' Circle.

I gave my standard answer: how lucky I am to have my own study in my Victorian Cotswold cottage, with a big desk facing a window that looks out over the garden.

But next morning, when I sat down to write there, I shrieked as a sharp pain shot from my spine to my ankle, reminding me that lately I had been spending far too long at my desk-with-a-view - and I felt desirous of change.

Prompted by the arrival of my new National Trust card in the post the day before, and licensed by my friend and mentor Orna Ross to fill the creative well with a weekly "create date" with self, I stowed my purse, my shades, and my notebook and pen into my backpack, donned my walking boots, and set off to nearby Dyrham Park.

The long and winding road down through the deer park to the spectacular Dyrham Park

Ok, I confess, I drove there (well, it is about eight miles away) - but on arrival, I eschewed the visitor bus service and set off down the path to this beautiful stately home, nestling at the bottom of the deer park, in search of a different place to write my daily words.

A cosy nook beckoned me from inside a hollow tree

This old hollow tree looked tempting. I've always had a soft spot for hollow trees since reading Enid Blyton's The Hollow Tree House (over and over again) when I was a child. Unfortunately this one was roped off from public access.

I proceeded to the main house, skirting round the building - it was too sunny outside to be indoors - admiring beautiful Delft pots of tulips on the way. (This was a few weeks ago now.)

The original owner had served as Dutch ambassador

I thought the chapel would come in handy if my writing wasn't progressing well and I needed a quick pray, but sadly it was locked.

The chapel now serves as the parish church.

There were plenty of seats to choose from with scenic views of the flowerbeds...

To sit in sunshine or shadow? - depends on which end you choose

...although I might be tempted to take pity on the gardener and lend him a hand with the weeding.

I think he might benefit from a bigger wheelbarrow

Wildflower meadows complemented the formal planting, replete with so many traditional English plants that I found Oberon's seductive lines running through my head...

"I know a bank where the wild thyme grows..."

Great swathes of forget-me-nots - a humble plant invested with a special significance in my Sophie Sayers Village Mysteries - brought me back to the purpose of my visit: to write. 

Not forgetting...

I turned my back on the lake to investigate what looked at first glance as a kind of wooden hammock.

Nature's hammock?

...but closer inspection revealed a forbidding sign.

Then - who'd have thought it? - I found myself on the threshold of the National Trust gift shop. I do like a National Trust gift shop. Thoughts of writing were quickly forgotten as I snapped up a lovely new linen sunhat, a book about drawing (a hobby I've wanted to take up for a long time), and some souvenir postcards. 

Running out of time to get home for my daughter's return from school, I got the bus back up the hill to the car park, and returned home feeling like Wordsworth inspired by his visit to Tintern Abbey, rested, revitalised and refreshed by my impromptu outing, back at my normal place of work.

"Home again, home again, jiggety jig"

And where did I write this post? In Dyrham Park's excellent tea room, of course. At last - I'd discovered the perfect office! 

• To find the nearest National Trust property to you, click here. 
• To find out more about my Sophie Sayers Village Mysteries, click here. 
• To order any of the Sophie Sayers Village Mysteries, click here.

Not forgetting the books...

Find out more about my writing life at my website: www.authordebbieyoung.com

Bye bye Blogger!

This is just to let anyone know who might still be checking out my Blogger site that I've now moved my blog to http://www.youngbyname.wordpress.com. My old portfolio website is still available at http://www.debbieyoung.info but that URL will be pointed at the wordpress site a little bit later this year.

To all subscribers: please subscribe to my new Wordpress site instead - it's much nicer!

Best wishes
Debbie

The Freelance Philosopher

What do freelance philosophers think about on their day off?

Until I heard one introduced on a radio discussion programme recently, I didn’t even know there was such a thing. Unable to hear the rest of the broadcast, I’ve been wondering ever since what the job entailed.

I picture the philosopher on the programme in full flow, his meter running, taxi-like, as he expounds. Then, as the end credits roll, he flips up the flag to turn his yellow “for hire” light back on. Till someone hails him for another trip, he’ll be switching off his mind.

When not in receipt of a paycheck, does his overdeveloped mind transforsms from wily processor to passive receiver? Does he sit expressionless, refusing to extrapolate philosophical theories from his experiences? Next time I meet a philosopher, I’ll be watching and taking notes.

Actually, I refuse to accept that there can be such a thing as a freelance philosopher. Surely, if your mind is of philosophical bent, you just can’t help yourself. It’s the same with being a writer.

Admittedly, when I ditched my full-time job in February, I did initially bill myself as a freelance writer to celebrate escaping the yoke of a salaried employee. But I quickly realised two important truths.

Firstly, freelance should not be confused with freedom. The freelance may no longer be enslaved to a single employer, but that doesn’t make him free. (And slavery has its advantages – security, for starters).

Secondly, a writer is a writer is a writer. I will always write, whether or not someone is paying me a fee. All artistic or creative types should surely be entitled to describe themselves by their vocation regardless of their income. If you write poetry, you’re a poet; if you paint pictures you’re an artist. It’s immaterial whether the meter is running (or should that be metre, for the poet?) Payment is desirable, of course – but lack of it won’t dry up my pen. Selling only a single painting in his lifetime did not, I am sure, prevent Van Gogh from calling himself an artist.

It’s not as if there are specific qualifications for such occupations. It’s not like the medical profession, where you need years of training and official registration before you can use the associated title. I for one would have to be desparate to accept treatment from a freelance doctor or itinerant dentist.

This tag “freelance” also has a certain implied sadness about it. Like the label “single” these days, there are overtones of failure, of waiting for someone to come along and snap you up.

In the end, I felt a little sorry for my mystery freelance philosopher. I just hope he eventually found someone willing to pay him to come to terms with his situation.

Give Me A Wetwipe and I Will Clean the World

I am not renowned for the quality of my housework. Until recently, I could blame my laxity on having a full-time job while also raising a family, but as I gave up the job in February and my family consists of just the one husband and child,that excuse doesn't quite pull the same punch these days.

Since drawing the rheumatoid arthritis card a few years ago, I have in any case had to be economic with the scrubbing brush, as my hands can't take the strain. (Well, it was a welcome excuse, to be honest.)

I've been frightened of vacuum cleaners since the age of about 2. One of my earliest memories is hiding from the hoover in horror. (It's called zuigerphobia, as you ask.) Fortunately the recent trend for laminate flooring and my subsequent elimination of carpet in my house mitigated in the favour of floor hygiene.

But now I've discovered the joy of household wetwipes, the dust and germs are starting to lose their battle in my home.

Of course, as a modern mother, I got through a crate or two of baby wipes when my daughter was smaller. How did our parents ever manage without them? When I was a teenager and the environmental debate about disposable nappies was starting up, I cut out a cartoon from the newspaper that showed a lady carrying around her baby in a bucket, saying "On balance it seemed the best solution". It seemed like a perfectly good idea to me. But baby wipes stopped being a regular feature in my shopping trolley some time ago.

Then when I had to give notice to my cleaning ladies when I left the job that paid their fee, I started to linger a little longer in the cleaning products aisle at the supermarket. There I discovered a fascinating range of wetwipes for the home. Polish-impregnated wipes to do away with grubby yellow dusters and icky polising cloths, window wipes, kitchen counter wipes, bathroom wipes, shower wipes, and now even flushable toilet wipes. I trialled them in our camper van, where space is at a premium and their compact packaging was a distinct advantage. Within ten minutes, I had the whole interior shiny new.

I'm ignoring my inkling that this could all be a manufacturing scam. Are all of the wipes actually exactly the same, just with a slightly different perfume added to put you off the scent (ho ho) and a different plastic wrapper? I'm not prepared to testdrive the flushable toilet wipes on my leather sofas to check this out.

Having just enjoyed cleaning my bathroom with, yes, the bathroom wipes, I plan to get the polishy ones out in a minute for my desktop, once I've finished this piece. Then perhaps I'll head for the Welsh dresser in the kitchen. I'm on a roll here.

Give me the right wetwipe and I could clean up the world. Global warming wetwipe, anyone? Pollution polishing cloth? Anti-terrorist tissues? Go on, Cillit Bang, I'm sure you could do it if you put your minds to it.

It's So Last Century

My sister-in-law Janet's famed theory ("The best way to get something done is to do something else") strikes again today as I take my car to the garage for repairs.

My objective: to cure the car of making an odd scraping sound that suggests the exhaust might be about to fall off. While the mechanics try to diagnose the cause, I'm restricted to a range within walking distance of the garage. So I hit Chipping Sodbury High Street with nothing to do but keep an eye on my phone for an update on my car's welfare.

My achievement: one new skirt, one new waistcoat, one new jacket, one new blouse, plus a bill for £68 (so a bit of a bargain, then). This is, of course, excluding the garage costs.

A frequent target for comedians as the ultimate in rural backwaters, Chipping Sodbury High Street is actually quite a pretty place, with an old-fashioned marketplace centre and a range of shops untouched by the global brands that dominate most other high streets. Until I ran out of cats, my most frequent missions to Sodbury were for the sake of the veterinary surgery. Until the wonderful Mr Riley retired a few years ago, he seemed to spend almost as much time with my menagerie as I did. He particularly looked forward to appointments with Floyd, whom he pronounced "the most amiable cat I've ever met". Even when taking an animal on a one-way trip to the vet, I always enjoyed the fact that Mr Riley's surgery was situated in Horse Street.

Our house now being a feline-free zone, I spend today's visit meandering down the High Street. I check out the charity shops, as you do, before wandering into a clothes shop that I'd never been into before. Having previously written it off as a shop for old ladies, I soon find myself enthusiastically trying on half the shop. At one point another customer asks my permission to try on a dress. I am carrying so many clothes that she thinks I must work there. I leave with a surprisingly full carrier bag, trying not to consider the possibility that the chief reason I nowlike this shop is that I've evolved into an old lady.

My car, incidentally, does not get fixed. The required part will not arrive until Monday. So my sole achievement this morning is to revitalise my wardrobe.

This comes not a moment before time. Recently I rearranged my clothes. Usually I oscillate between hanging them in order of colour and pairing them up in outfits, in between the odd bout of chaos. I flirted with the idea of putting them in order by date of purchase, until I realised that a shocking proportion of items were bought before the turn of the millenium. Never mind them being "so last year" - "so last century" was nearer the mark. Carbon-dating would not go amiss.

But one thing's for sure: Janet's theory is proven beyond all doubt.

Offa's Dyke Path, Laura's Way

When my daughter Laura had just turned two years old, we decided we'd walk the Offa's Dyke Path - the national trail that runs along the ancient English-Welsh border.

From the start, on the banks of the River Severn near Chepstow, we agreed we'd be realistic about our ambition. Accordingly, each year, we've done just two or three short segments of the 177 mile long Path. At first she would tire easily and we'd have to carry her, but lately the problem has not been her energy - she literally skips up some steep slopes - but her willingness. With the squeamishness of most seven year olds, she has developed an aversion to cross country routes due to the presence of animal poo. So we're developed some handy diversionary strategies to keep her marching on.

Our first tactic was to let her play with my mobile phone. As it was loaded with the Mamma Mia soundtrack, Laura positively danced past the sheep that day. On her sixth birthday, this was replaced with a pink iPod shuffle, featuring all her favourite songs and stories, and providing the important benefit of earphones. (The sheep had a whip-round.)

Second, we now always load our pockets with snacks, preferably the kind that can be made to last a long time. As Laura's diabetic, I always have a packet of LoveHearts to hand in case of hypos. Not only are these handy for instant inflight refuelling, they also provide entertainment as we read and discuss the slogan printed on each one. These have moved with the times since I was a child, now saying things like "Text Me" and most recently (and bizarrely) "Me Julie".

Thirdly, we allow a couple of lightweight toys to stow away in our rucksacks. These are useful for impromptu games along the way. This week, the sight of Ken helping Barbie courteously over stiles provided excellent entertainment for us all.

Community singing is a great standby, especially songs that can be adapted to suit our walks. "The Wheels on the Bus" easily accomodates "sheep on the bus", "cows on the bus" and so on, though I wouldn't like to be a passenger on that particular double-decker. "One Man Went to Mow" proved popular during our Easter walks, with the dog-mad Laura enthusiastically providing the "Woof-woofs" for up to 27 men going to mow before the game started to pall (and Mummy to run out of puff). I'm keeping "10 Green Bottles" up my sleeve.

But best of all is my latest ploy: to read books as we walk along. "Multi-tasking at its finest," as a friend described it when I told her about our Easter trip.

For some reason, Roald Dahl has become a natural companion on Offa's Dyke. Maybe it's his Welsh upbringing coming into play. "The Fantastic Mr Fox" saw us out of Hay-on-Wye and will be forever associated in my mind with the sublime views from Hergest Ridge. (Though I did manage to finish it in time to catch Mike Oldfield's glorious eponymous album on my own iPod before we descended.) "The Giraffe, The Pelly and Me" took us up the steep rise out of Kington, and "Danny the Champion of the World" saw us down the other side.

I think I may have discovered a whole new pastime here. I'm keen to find further books that will take us on appropriate walks. Some are blindingly obvious: "Three Men in a Boat" along the Thames towpath, "Cider with Rosie" for the Cotswold Way. But contrasts would be fun too: the alpine story of "Heidi" in Holland, "Born Free" on a city break. There'll be a packet of LoveHearts for the sender of the best suggestion.

Beanhenge

What is it about runner beans that compels the English gardener to grow them?

They have little flavour, and what there is of it is pretty uninteresting. Their rough and hairy texture is not generally sought after in foodstuff, unless you're an owl or suchlike with a penchant for mice. No matter how carefully you prepare beans for cooking, they still smuggle stringy bits into your mouth that must be bravely swallowed or brashly extracted, depending on the company you're in.

Yet, like a lemming to the cliff-edge, (that gruesome Disney fabrication - Google "Disney" and "lemming" if you don't know what I'm talking about), I find myself yet again this spring wrestling with bamboo canes and wiggly bean seedlings. How to arrange them this year to net the best yield without losing the lot to strong winds - or an eye to the cane tips?

I've had it with wigwams, where you arrange the canes in a circle, binding them together at the top, Indian fashion. All is well when you blow the whistle for the beans to start growing. They race straight up the sticks happily enough. But as soon as they converge at the top, there's chaos. The result: a tangled mess, with far too much bean plant to airspace.

Compared to this, the bean tent offers obvious advantages: two parallel rows of poles, inclined to meet at the top. Here you secure a single cane with string to form the ridge. Each plant enjoys more airspace and the whole makes for easier picking. But by the time the early autumn winds pick up, there's enough plant matter to catch the wind like a sail. Before you know it, the tent is travelling about the garden and felling any other plants in its way.

But this year, I think I've cracked it. With a fine collection of weathered bean poles of many different lengths, I have insufficient matching ones to tackle either classic structure, and my hand is forced. Without a clear plan of action, I just shove what sticks I have in the ground, upright in a circle, and plant a seedling at the foot of each. I slip a plant tie around each one and secure it to the nearest stick: a hint as to where it should pledge its allegiance. Standing back to admire my handiwork, and wondering what to do next, it occurs to me that I've created a whole new concept: the runner bean's answer to Stonehenge. It has a cretain timelessness and dignity about it, and it looks pretty well unshiftable. All I need to do now to complete the effect is to find a few shorter sticks and place them across the top of random pairs of canes.

There is ample space for every plant to flourish and for the would-be picker to find the beans. No matted canopy of green to catch the wind. Beanhenge is the perfect solution. All I need do now is await the summer solstice and see which bean lines up with the sunrise. I'm half expecting a posse of druids to turn up. Now, where did I put my woad?