I have to confess; I really did not listen to my head at all. When I saw the cottage; I fell in love there and then.
There was something about the Virginia creeper that crept obsessively over the front of the house framing small windows, shading the front door, cradling it from harm. The way the sun fell to one side and the grotesque shadows played across the side garden, half the house stayed in the shade whereas the other was bathed in glorious contrasting light.
I still remember the feeling as I got out of the car. The sweet citrus smell of the already flowering magnolia cloying my nostrils. I peered through the arched gate and up the tiny broken path. The house was so concealed that you could not see it till you stood on the path and then the whole house smiled its deceptive welcome.
Up until that point, I had hardly noticed being part of life. The pain of thinking and particularly remembering was just too much to bear. As I stepped through that arch, I had felt something. Was it fear? I was not aware at first, but the numbness was dulled. Butterflies flitted round my stomach, dancing a fast and furious salsa. My heart was beating, and even I could hear the quickness of breath. I realised at that moment that I was still alive. I knew I owed it to Carl and Tiffany to try to rebuild my life.
“I’ll take it” I had told the bewildered agent there and then, with the smell of sea air brushing round me and the taste of salt on my tongue. It had been a while since I could taste anything. The gulls down on the beach were swooping high in the air screeching warnings loudly to each other as they soared closer over the cottage.
“but you need to look inside.” He was young, in his recently acquired jacket and particularly polished shoes. “What about the quaint kitchen leading to the basement utility room and the beautifully appointed en-suite to the …”
“Its ok I will take it. How long a lease will they allow me? I definitely want it all summer do you think they will grant me a full year?” It was probably a bit rude of me to cut him off in his newly learned patter.
“I don’t know,” he flitted through his sheaf of papers, leaning from one foot to the other “shall we go to the back garden, you just have to see the view and I need to show you where the cliff drops to the…..”
“It’s fine” I had told him. My face even managed to crack a small smile. Oh I remember the effort and the pain of doing so, but the effect had been a lightening inside me. It was as if, that saying you know the one; ‘a weight was truly lifted that day from my shoulders’.
I could not understand what was happening. What was important on that day, was that I could feel again and it was Damascus Rose Cottage that had opened my eyes or rather my heart.
when? I found the course gave me an edge to my writing that allowed me the confidence to change that oh so important first line and many subsequent ones. My change in tact on the first page now needs to be carried through the story so I feel another read through is required. But…, and you may need to sit for this; I have been working on a new fresh synopsis and cover letter so I am ready to send them….
All the arrangements made we waited through the autumn. Christmas came and went and life began a fresh hectic New Year of work commitments, socialising and motherhood. I woke early each morning and did a small amount of writing noticing that the dawn rose earlier than I these days. Some mornings were dedicated to editing rather than the far easier subject of writing.
Five years later I was now following her footsteps. (Is there something spooky or stalkerish about retracing my fictional heroine?) A visit to Cobh was on the cards for the historical value linked to the Titanic, and as it was not far from Monkstown where my grandfather was actually born. Another look at Google Earth was called for and confirmed East Ferry was just beyond Cobh. The train and ferry plans abandoned while a search of the internet revealed many car hire firms from the airport.
for the torrent of photographers and attention the house was receiving. The door slowly opened and expecting a short apology, we all stood agog as they were invited inside and the door closed. 10 minutes of cold and discussion led us to the warmth of the tiny Italian coffee house round the corner where the smell of cappuccinos and lattes infused the nostalgic aura surrounding us. The others joined us later; the house owners knew of my mother’s family but they had all gone a long time ago.
East Ferry was not quite how I imagined it to be. There is very little there; a few houses, a pub and a view right up and down the River Lee estuary, and not forgetting a small ferry crossing. The internet claims it to have a fairly major sailing school. However, the house I was looking for was not. I remembered looking on Google Earth; the house had been there, I had checked it several times in the run up to the visit, the view from it photographed and uploaded to the web; I knew it so well. Could I have the wrong place? Could there be another East Ferry?
at least I had found the village, I was full now of reservations whether it would serve my purpose and which house? Does it really matter in a story if you use a real house or made up one? He pointed ahead, a small row of cottages at the end of which a wider area leading into a drive way where we can turn.
The row of cottages, the middle one! It was not the most dignified of stops and luckily the road was fairly deserted as I would have blocked any passing traffic. I was out of the car, camera in hand shooting shots for posterity. Clambering through a small gap in the hedge to the precipice of the cliff drop I found the internet view shot taken from the house. Coming back through, I could see in all its glory, the very house my fictional family stayed in. Apologies to the current owners who have probably owned it for years but this was to be my holiday home.
hange of use other than the church, and along the coast. We reached as far out the other side as the house had been and turned the corner away from the tiny port. Here we found another cottage with an even better location that fits my story. So back to my question should I visit the places first or make them up to suit my purposes?
was just a short stopover and I would have loved to have stayed longer but my research was a very powerful emotion. I had lived with my fictional memory for so long; then finding the reality of its existence provided an unexpected climax to my trip.
when? I found the course gave me an edge to my writing that allowed me the confidence to change that oh so important first line and many subsequent ones. My change in tact on the first page now needs to be carried through the story so I feel another read through is required. But…, and you may need to sit for this; I have been working on a new fresh synopsis and cover letter so I am ready to send them….
All the arrangements made we waited through the autumn. Christmas came and went and life began a fresh hectic New Year of work commitments, socialising and motherhood. I woke early each morning and did a small amount of writing noticing that the dawn rose earlier than I these days. Some mornings were dedicated to editing rather than the far easier subject of writing.
Five years later I was now following her footsteps. (Is there something spooky or stalkerish about retracing my fictional heroine?) A visit to Cobh was on the cards for the historical value linked to the Titanic, and as it was not far from Monkstown where my grandfather was actually born. Another look at Google Earth was called for and confirmed East Ferry was just beyond Cobh. The train and ferry plans abandoned while a search of the internet revealed many car hire firms from the airport.
e for the torrent of photographers and attention the house was receiving. The door slowly opened and expecting a short apology, we all stood agog as they were invited inside and the door closed. 10 minutes of cold and discussion led us to the warmth of the tiny Italian coffee house round the corner where the smell of cappuccinos and lattes infused the nostalgic aura surrounding us. The others joined us later; the house owners knew of my mother’s family but they had all gone a long time ago.
East Ferry was not quite how I imagined it to be. There is very little there; a few houses, a pub and a view right up and down the River Lee estuary, and not forgetting a small ferry crossing. The internet claims it to have a fairly major sailing school. However, the house I was looking for was not. I remembered looking on Google Earth; the house had been there, I had checked it several times in the run up to the visit, the view from it photographed and uploaded to the web; I knew it so well. Could I have the wrong place? Could there be another East Ferry?
at least I had found the village, I was full now of reservations whether it would serve my purpose and which house? Does it really matter in a story if you use a real house or made up one? He pointed ahead, a small row of cottages at the end of which a wider area leading into a drive way where we can turn.
The row of cottages, the middle one! It was not the most dignified of stops and luckily the road was fairly deserted as I would have blocked any passing traffic. I was out of the car, camera in hand shooting shots for posterity. Clambering through a small gap in the hedge to the precipice of the cliff drop I found the internet view shot taken from the house. Coming back through, I could see in all its glory, the very house my fictional family stayed in. Apologies to the current owners who have probably owned it for years but this was to be my holiday home.
hange of use other than the church, and along the coast. We reached as far out the other side as the house had been and turned the corner away from the tiny port. Here we found another cottage with an even better location that fits my story. So back to my question should I visit the places first or make them up to suit my purposes?
was just a short stopover and I would have loved to have stayed longer but my research was a very powerful emotion. I had lived with my fictional memory for so long; then finding the reality of its existence provided an unexpected climax to my trip.
happy with smiles on their faces and it was a reminder of happier times as two of the brothers have since passed away. It was a great photo; the River Exe burbled and meandered its route to the sea as in the foreground, 7 happy smiling faces enjoy the celebrations.
A question was asked and another answered as misunderstandings were rife. A conversation started but left part way as they all forgot the topic and moved on to the next. Confusion rose around the modern card machine and payment. Then, began the operation to manoeuvre them all back in to the cars, together with one wheel chair, a variety of sticks and several slow paced steps.
