A sense of place
by Kate Bousfield
Here on the cliff I am surrounded by the coconut warmth of the gorse, the freshly cut grass from the fields behind and the salty tang from a sea that next hits land in America. A digital camera could capture the scene but it could not give the aromas that leach from a wind that is blowing off the land.
Hells Mouth. The land plummets away from me in a 200ft drop to the aquamarine sea below. A cheery place Cornwall, full of rather beautiful suicide spots.
I know I am lucky. This piece of land, this County of Cornwall, is an inspiration to a thousand painters, a glut of sculptors and a heap of photographers – all clamouring for a piece of the wildness that has refused the call of modern times. It is not difficult to displace yourself on this piratical coast, imagining du Maurier’s smugglers dragging contraband up the many hidden coves to the waiting warren of caves.
I sit on my seagull perch and watch a shoal of mackerel, moving as one between an outcrop of rocks and a gently moving forest of wrack but my pen has not found its way to the notebook open on my lap. The pages remain blank, free from the clue words of a fresh poem or the descriptive sentences that may eventually work their way into a new novel.
I live in place that could be termed one huge muse, Zeus’s fattest daughter if you like, dramatic cliffs, quaint villages, barren moorland and lush forest at every turn. But can a place actually call forth inspiration, wrap it up and deliver it as a whole piece? Some would say yes, that surroundings are as important as the writing, that we should write about what we know - but should we actually be sat amongst it?
This question comes from a writer who tapped totally into her surroundings when writing Coven of One. The southern lands in this book are based completely on Cornwall, but I did not sit on the quay in Polperro or wander the winding streets of Mousehole to collect the ambience I wanted. Come to think of it I did not write The Geishan Kumiai in Japan and as far as I’m aware I have not experienced the ice age of Capricorn Wind.
I return home to a house that has sea views, in a town that still boasts more houses from the 18th century than new. My desk faces neither. The window to the side overlooks a neglected courtyard, and to my left are shelves filled with books and writing clutter. My only view is the screen in front of me and this is how I like it.
My writing world sits within a metre square, filled with things I love that negate the need for rolling countryside and craggy mountains. These inspirements range from a gonk that I had when I was ten, to a laughing Buddha, and a tin of my children’s teeth (I know!). Peruvian worry dolls, that were purchased from a little know Peruvian town in deepest Dorset, sit in a glowering line as a brass Shiva beside them holds out her hands expecting the literary miracles that are one day going to come tripping from my fingers. My desk is home to Esme, a patient cat, a pot of special pens that no one is allowed to touch, small gifts from friends that mean a lot and of course, my laptop, my gateway to the world.
All is here and once I am immersed in writing there could be a nuclear holocaust going on outside and I wouldn’t have a clue!
Joyce once said “When I die Dublin will be written in my heart”. Cornwall will no doubt be written on mine but while I am writing my lovely county is forgotten. Banished to somewhere beyond the front door because what could be more perfect than setting one’s imagination free to run riot in a land of one’s own making?
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Kate Bousfield is the author of the novel Coven of One.
Kate blogs at The Inner Minx
