I got back from France on Saturday. I was there to make wine - something I wrote about in another book which, if you haven't read, you should. It got some lovely reviews and not all of them were by my mom.
As usual when I go to France, noble determination to write every day evaporated as the exhaustion of the work took hold and nightcaps served in part to wash down the super strength ibuprofen used to dull the pain. I wrote a bit, though, and not for the first time I pondered a life spent in the Roussillon on a more full time basis.
Harvest was well-timed this year (I say "was" - harvest is still going on - I've just had to leave it a little early) as I was desperately in need of getting the hell out of London. And now I've returned to find I wasn't quite the hell out of London for long enough. Don't get me wrong, I love London dearly, and can sometimes almost afford to enjoy living here. But it's beginning to weigh on me a bit and so, seeking another escape, I booked train tickets up to St Andrews. I'm not up until next month sometime, but it will be good to be back. There's something quite magical about travelling over the Forth Rail Bridge into Fife. It's one of those places that you get a sense of the scale of the earth and mankind's attempts to tame it. The bridge seems so huge and yet the empty space beneath it so vast and the water so deep that it doesn't so much traverse and conquer the distance as it does seek permission for its span. Crossing it feels like leaving something behind everytime.
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