A link I’d been sent recently to a reputable website, the BBC in point of fact, had been a gentle reminder that literature is inextricably bound to the landscape. Laurie Lee’s Cider with Rosie. Somerset. Wordsworth and the Lakes. Virginia Woolf. Cornwall. Whilst I didn’t exactly disagree with the writer’s assertion, the romanticisation of rural Britain would have been a better premise for the piece. Exploring the irony that in doing so, in bringing such idyllic locations to the attention of the masses, the middle classes at least, the very essence the authors had sought to capture would be lost. Forever.

I’d hated Cider with Rosie at school but as an adult loved its descriptive prose, the fine detail. You could taste the morning dew, the crunch of freshly plucked apples. But what I liked most were the manuscripts. Scrawled handwriting, as if written in haste, struggling to get ideas onto paper before they might be lost. Insights into composition that would endure. I’d imagined a writing desk, blotting pad and an ink bottle. Generous black strokes, scribed deeply into thick parchment paper. A contemplative silence ruffled only by the gentle tick of a clock. Beyond, a bay window, soft early morning sunlight.

And then I remembered. Freshly made coffee. A small cafetiere, filled to the brim, the plunger precariously balanced on a thick crust of grounds. My inspiration, frequent sips as a smoker might draw on a cigarette. Dylan Thomas perhaps, surrounded by discarded papers, crumpled in frustration, lying now on a tatty, stained carpet. Soft hazy spirals rising slowly from nicotine stained fingers. Ash on the page, a small tumbler of cheap whisky within reach.

I doubted if anyone wrote novels long hand these days, but hand written prose still had its place, the art of letter writing at least offering a gravitas electronic media could never match in an intrinsically sensual world. Fine vellum wasn’t necessary, indeed composition on the back of a paper napkin, jottings on cheap hotel headed notepaper, suggested the author had made that extra effort, had sought to share their thoughts, their feelings, with a freshness, a spontaneity that might otherwise have been lost.

The plunger slid down with ease. Quickly decanted into a mug marked Captain. I’d nautical aspirations, rather more Swallows and Amazons than the open ocean. Returning to the kitchen table, neatly stacked with work for the day ahead. Soft brown leather organiser, a trusted companion, now with light sheen from years of faithful service, a gloss disrupted only by a few deeply ingrained freckles. Couple of A level texts. Mathematics. Classic works but with bright, appealing covers and well presented text inside. A scientific calculator with a soft grey case. Creativity can be ordered, a beauty in precision quite possible.

[Despite a childhood aversion to Cider with Rosie – one of his set texts for English Literature – the author actually secured a respectable 'O' level, as much to the surprise of his teacher as to himself]

I’d returned to Somerset, albeit briefly, to make sure all remained on track for my inaugural talk in a little less than three weeks. And a chance to catch up with friends, as well as to reinforce my desire to return to being properly resident once more. Not that I especially needed encouragement with the latter, which had left me in a somewhat pensive mood of late. A few hours with a close friend exploring the heath land had been instructive, helping consolidate the various strands of thought that’d been growing over the last couple of weeks. A plan was required, or at least one with more definition, more substance, than the one I’d presently got.

Settling quickly on the notion of a plan to yield a more tangible plan, a concept with shades of Yes Minister, the conversation had quickly returned to coincidences and conspiracies, of which there remained a lot to choose from. Partly my fault, for I’d a large red holdall identical to the one in which a chap had been found dead inside in what could only be described as suspicious circumstances and suggestions of foul play by an unknown third party. We’d also dwelt once more on the demise of a British businessman in China that had led to turmoil amongst the higher echelons of their Communist Party. All the makings, I’d suggested, with a wry smile, of a decent espionage novel. I’d proffered theories.

Simple coincidence quickly seemed a much lighter topic, and there’d been a fair few of late. A fellow cyclist I’d been introduced to a year or so earlier, courtesy of a friend from my village, had been unexpectedly mentioned over lunch the previous weekend, this time by close relatives who, it transpired, had been at Cambridge with her. Had I heard of her, they’d asked? Yes, I said, a little to their surprise I thought. I’d got back in touch with my fellow traveller, now in Pakistan, soon sharing what I hoped would be helpful insights into Chinese visas. And there’d been a few other examples, enough to make you feel just a bit conspiratorial if you were that way inclined. I wasn’t.

The broad spur began to steepen quite sharply, my companion choosing to pack away his camera in case he lost his footing. Below us the small village where we’d parked up a few hours earlier. Thatched cottages, sprinkled around the church. And a little line of bungalows. Close enough for us to observe, but far away not to be seen. We agreed it looked nice, but a bit too quiet. Wrong demographic we’d said, both reluctant to actually say old
people. Time to move on.

But it wasn’t just fiction that’d had me intrigued of late. Much in the news to draw in my interest, especially if you’re a conspiracy theorist. I’m not, but I do enjoy a good plot with plenty of twists and turns. Ever wondered what spies give each other for Christmas? I’ve a hunch that there are a few worried souls on the South Bank of the Thames who’d rather wished they’d eased back on the glowing correspondence with the Libyans and, instead, given them a shredder. Adds new meaning to the expression Pen is mightier than the Sword if you’re looking for a smoking
gun.

Amidst the terrible nautical puns, there’d been a refreshing piece in the Independent on one man’s effort to thwart the annual Oxford Cambridge boat race. There’d been talk of Class War, but I’d always thought that was really an indulgence of Socialist Worker staffers, and in any case it’d hardly been little more than a skirmish. But no, our lone swimmer had at least livened up what was undoubtedly one of the dullest possible spectator sports, the writer claimed. After snooker. I agreed.

Class, incidentally, we are told, is a very British thing. Eton. Harrow. Oxbridge. Although sometimes it sounds to me like the politics of envy, oft said by those who should have tried harder at school. Truth is often less palatable than some would like, for the rarely aired irony is that both Oxford and Cambridge would actually welcome far more students from less advantaged backgrounds. Perhaps less prepared than their public school chums for the entry process, instead reliant more on raw intellectual ability, they generally make better undergraduates. As I’d once learnt over breakfast with the Rector of one of the Oxford Colleges. She’d been most passionate on this point.

But most intriguing of all over the last couple of weeks has been the death of an old Harrovian in China. Actually it was last year, but the story, such as it is, has only recently emerged. Amidst tales of political intrigue amongst the highest echelons of the Chinese Communist Party there’d been quickly rebutted suggestions of espionage, and allegations of vast wealth being siphoned off. The only certainty so far is that a rather amiable chap is now dead. If I ever needed a plot for a novel, the whole affair wouldn’t be a bad start. I stuffed the various press cuttings in an envelope and made a few more notes.

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