Category: French life

“I do not want art for a few,

any more than education for a few

or freedom for a few.”

A few years ago, I frequently visited the Alhambra in Granada.  One of my favourite books about the place was ‘Tales of the Alhambra’ by Washington Irving.  Irving is better known as the writer of Rip Van Winkle and the Legend of Sleepy Hollow.  This book however tells of his time spent in Granada when he lived in the Alhambra itself.  In 1827 the Alhambra was a ruin inhabited only by the local gypsies and Washington Irving on his travels through Spain simply moved into an area of the palace that was empty.  The book that he subsequently wrote included legends and stories that he heard from those gypsy occupants.

Back in 2007, I bought a box of random books at an auction in Carlisle.  Some of them I read immediately but some simply went onto the book shelves to be read at a later date.  One day after I had moved to Brittany in 2010, I picked up one of these books and started to read it.  It was leather bound, in two volumes and looked to be a first edition by an unknown author.  It was called ’The Alhambra’ by Geoffrey Crayon but it really puzzled me because although I didn’t recognise the author’s name, I was sure that I had read it before.  Sure enough, when I got down the book ‘Tales of the Alhambra’ by Washington Irving and compared them, the two were identical – word for word.  Now here was a puzzle. Was this Geoffrey Crayon guilty of massive plagiarism?  It didn’t take much research to discover that in fact, Washington Irving had used the pen name ‘Geoffrey Crayon’ to write some of his works and by sheer fluke, I was now the owner of a first edition by Washington Irving.

The Washington Irving story becomes even more interesting when you learn that in Paris in the 1820’s, he was romantically pursued by a certain Mary Shelley who had moved there following the death by drowning of her husband, the poet Percy Shelley.

Even the dates fitted in with the narrative of my story.  How could I not make use of these characters?  So I did.

Writing a book is a daunting challenge.  Writing your first book is terrifying.  There are days when everything runs smoothly but equally, there are days – lots of them – when you feel that you will never be able to write another word.  Believe me – I’ve been there, convinced that I should just walk away from the whole stupid idea.  But having made that decision, after all, the saying is that everyone has a book in them, where do you get the idea, the inspiration that encourages you to start.  Well, for example, Jules Verne was reading a newspaper in a café in Paris when he came across an advertisement that offered tourists the chance to travel around the globe in 80 days.  This was unheard of at the time and his novel was the result.

 J.R.R. Tolkien by contrast was hard at work grading exam papers when he came upon a blank sheet.  For some reason, he wrote down the first thing that came into his head – “ In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit.”  He had no idea what a hobbit was or why it should live in a hole but it sparked the idea for a masterpiece.

The stories about the inspiration for great novels could form the basis of a novel by themselves but before I explain where my ideas came from, let me tell you about perhaps the most tragic of beginnings.  A friend of Thomas Hardy earned a place at Oxford University but failed to get his degree.  He left Oxford but three years later tried again at Cambridge.  It took him over thirteen years to complete his studies during which time, he battled against alcoholism and depression.  He finally committed suicide by cutting his own throat.  Hardy later suggested that this man was the inspiration behind Jude the Obscure.

I cannot even claim inspiration.  My first novel came about because of an idea.  Years ago, I lived in Cumbria – very close to the Scottish Border.  I used to visit Drumlanrig Castle which was near to Dumfries in the Borders. It had on display a Da Vinci – The Madonna of the Yarnwinder but it always struck me how sparce the security systems were compared to the major galleries in London and Paris.   One day, the Leonardo was stolen and amazingly, visitors to the Castle that day, had seen two men climb out of a window with the painting under their arm.

 Not far away from the castle is Glenkiln reservoir which at about the same time, had large bronze sculptures by artists such as Rodin and Henry Moore scattered on the surrounding hills.  It always amazed me that someone didn’t just turn up one night with a JCB and a truck and take them away.

Sadly, years later that is just what happened to one of them and subsequently, most of the sculptures were removed.  It is such a pity because seeing them in this beautiful, natural environment was always a thrill.

To complete this story, one day I read about the theft of the Mona Lisa from the Louvre in 1911.  It was an amazing story and obviously struck a chord with me. Maybe there is a criminal mind somewhere in my head just waiting to burst out.

These ideas stayed with me for a few years until one day I decided to write a book about a painting.  Mirrors was born.

It’s a long time since I produced any code so I tried my hand in December.

if day.length = shortest

   then

(light.level = minimum) AND (season.summer) = coming

Strange things happen when you live in a village with an apostrophe in its name.  Here we are, in the French countryside after living the life of a towny for a million years.  Here we are, with an half an acre of field and orchard to maintain.  Here we are, trying to learn to speak and understand the native tongue in an area where the local accent is as thick as treacle. Well you get the picture.  In this area, the simple word oui becomes something like gwee – imagine coughing up flem and you get the idea.  Amazingly we have trees in our orchard.  Some of them are big – like big enough to touch the overhead power cable running alongside the edge.  Trees touching power cable equals possibility of bringing down electricity supply to the whole village.  Not good said Maddo our elderly neighbour.  You must do something about it. At least that was how I translated a series of gutteral grunts that were emitted my way.  Don’t get me wrong.  I like this lady.  A lot.  She and her husband recently marched me to the nearest chestnut tree across the fields, helped me to collect them and gave detailed instructions on how to roast them on our woodburner.  Fernard appeared one morning planting lettuces in our prototype veg. patch. They seem to appreciate our rudimentary efforts at getting to grips with the language.  But Maddo is formidable.  It was time to take her advice.