Part 2 in the hills

Day one- involved driving to Inverness airport and flying first to London Gatwick, and thence to Pisa. I left Caithness shrouded in mist and rain, and arrived in a baking hot London, along with the regional CPD co-ordinator, who approved my plans- after all I’d be working on the skills I need to teach the creative writing Drama option for the new qualifications. I had to negotiate my way between north and south terminals, and onto my second Easyjet flight. I got into a taxi at Pisa airport driven by an attractive Tuscan in baggy shorts who spoke English and took me to a very smart hotel ironically located in a run down part of Pisa. So far, so good. Until that is I realised I’d packed the wrong adapter for my iphone. Next morning, ahead of being picked up by the Watermill staff, I had to trek to Media World to find the correct cable and find plasters for the blisters I’d picked up on the way.

 

At the airport, sitting on my bag at Arrivals, apprehension began to kick in. Signing up for the course had been easy. Paying the fees, around £1500, and the flights- another £600, and then the three nights of hotels either side of the course, had eaten into the emergency fund, but I’d reckoned that not having been away anywhere for 25 years might justify it.  However, at the meeting point, I had spotted one or two people who looked as if they might be there for the same reason as me. One, a cross between Tony Hart and Benny Hill, turned out to be a grumpy minibus driver. Another, who spent the entire hour fiddling with his computer was a fellow course participant. A third, with an impressive set of luggage turned out to be our tutor. Nobody was in a hurry to speak, and I, who am seldom lost for words was at a complete loss

It took a couple arriving together to break the ice. P and J not only identified the tutor by name, but also managed to get everyone in the group to talk and introduce themselves.

Once on the minibus (which looked as if it had seen better days), we headed to Posara- not Posaro. There had been earthquakes the previous week and part of the road had been damaged so our journey into the hills took over two hours.

The scenery was stunning- but a mixture of medieval/Renaissance walled cities perched on mountain tops, combined with some pretty tatty roadside communities which looked as if some corners had been cut in the planning departments.

We eventually swung off a narrow road into a lane so tight I was convinced the wing mirrors of the bus would come off.  We’d arrived at the Watermill, and our week of writing was due to begin the next day.  Everyone was settled into rooms they had chosen when they’d booked. One person had cancelled so instead of staying in the hosts’ apartment, I was sharing with the girl helping with the cooking and cleaning in the oldest part of the building which overlooked the mill stream. Oddly enough, the living space downstairs reminded me of my flat at Bignold Court. There were no working locks- and we were told that this was in case anyone took ill and needed help.

Bill took us on a tour of the grounds, including the site where the small commune nearby held their annual party, and we piled into the minibus to be taken up to the village for our first night supper.

Fivvizano at its heart has a fountain donated by one of the Medici. The pavements are a treacherous trap for unwary feet (and having broken teeth on similar paving slabs I was especially careful), possibly the result of the frequent earthquakes the area is subject to. On the fringes are newer buildings. The weekly market was diverted to the streets on the outskirts several days later- as the threat of falling masonry put traders off from setting up stall near the 17thC part of the town.

In some ways it reminded me of Killin, the village in Perthshire where part of my family have lived since the 1960’s. Killin also gets earthquakes, and frequently gets cut off from the outside world by landslides or flood, or snow. When old Granny A lived with my aunts she wrote letters to my Dad expressing her wish to run away sometimes. I spent lots of holidays there as a child, and later as a student, and an abiding memory was of feeling trapped and remedying the situation by walking the hotel dogs.

The Watermill had neighbours with dogs, but none of them sounded the friendly walkie sort.

There was one room in the complex (there were five apartments ranging in terms of comfort- mine was the most Spartan) which had wifi access and for the next four days I was compelled to go and check my messages, facebook, and email. All of a sudden I was desperate to know what was happening in the outside world. One friend skyped me support; another cut off all contact- saying that for my own good I HAD to try and fit in.

I think when I signed up I had visions of things going along workshop lines, and I’d come with a notebook and an android tablet, expecting to take notes at lectures and discussions and to work in partnership with other people.

Most of the others had taken their laptops with them- and three had brought completed scripts. I’d sent in my short story anthology, but our tutor had overheard me telling the story of being bitten by a tropical spider in Tesco- and contracting septicaemia and suggested I write a 20 minute piece on that.

At that point I had total writer’s block. And why oh why had I not brought Tiddles with me? Ancient though he might be, my ten year old laptop has rescued lots of my pupils who have been temporarily without ICT.

The Watermill is a bit of a Brigadoon. It’s a corner of Tuscany which does the John Mortimer Chiantishire masquerade. The building is old and Tuscan, but the plumbing is British. The food is a lovely delicate take on local recipes (and Lois- I want the recipe for the fennel dish please). A typical day includes three lovely light meals with portions that won’t put weight on, and hardly any pasta. There are drinks on the terrace at Tiffin- or apertivi- the house special is a blend of sliced oranges, Aperol, and tonic water.  The hosts are charming. The only language spoken is English.

Step outside into the lanes and you’re in a different world. One where the neighbours keep hunting dogs, where a few miles up the hill you see the same Staffies and bulldogs you find in Kennedy Terrace in Wick, and where the Brits, attempting to order their ice cream and coffee in Italian stick out like a sore thumb.  

As those days passed I took my friend Kerry’s advice and asked questions. I wanted to know as much as possible about my fellow course participants. The married couple had brought the script for a sit com set in an accountants’ office (he is an accountant). They are from Essex, and their ancestors had fled the pogroms of Europe over the early part of the 20^th C. They were lovely- friendly, kind, and outgoing.

Dave, who sold holes in the ground for his father’s engineering company, had a brother working in television, and a script about two brothers inheriting a family business. He had his own agenda, and was out to get as much feedback from our tutor as he could- I got the idea that this course for him could end up being a game changer. He was nervy and when on his own fidgeted constantly. He often had the task of organising other people’s stag nights- and I got the feeling he was fast running out of single male friends.

M- a self confessed former Stepford Wife, had overtones of a Willy Russell heroine. My recent bereavement was as nothing compared to the catalogue of disasters which had changed her life: a sister dying young from breast cancer; a family row which had split her from her siblings; a failed marriage and a career change which saw her do an MA without having done a first degree, and working teaching writing as therapy to a woman’s group. She arrived perfectly groomed at each session, and was out to grab attention away from Dave, with her own idea for a film based on her own writing group.

There were two quiet people- S- a lovely lady who was taking a year out from an IT career to write, and work on a therapy programme, and Mark- a journalist who loned his way around the complex avoiding other people. I asked if he had anyone in his life who might be missing him, and got back that he preferred being on his own.

By now I’d worked out that two people were doing this as an adventure; two were desperate to get work on the screen; another two were looking to see what transpired. Laurence was at a loss as to what I was there for. And to be honest , so was I.

The week panned out that we had half the time on lectures and watching film text, followed by a day excursion, and then three days of one to one feedback- for those who’d written their pieces. Through the afternoon and evening sessions, my taste for comedy had evaporated. We watched episodes of sit-coms, or entire films, and then Dave told us why he didn’t like them.  By now Dave and M had become a double act- and their typical evening involved them polishing off a bottle of Limoncello between them.

In one little moment, the tutor had told us about a hypothetical security scenario- and without giving it too much thought, I told him how a similar scenario had ended- one which involved a friend of mine. I think I captured some interest at that point. LM – under the comedy role- is still a journalist at heart, and I was looking forward to my one to one session with him- which was due to happen on the train to Lucca. By now I’d decided that I’d write my comedy piece when I got home and my equilibrium had returned. For now I wanted to get my interviewer’s hat on and ask him about the process of writing- after all this was my year’s CPD.

And then the quake happened. Not much- not quite 7.5 on the Richter scale, but enough to stop all the trains to Lucca- as the tunnels had to be checked out for landslides.   On the outside world one friend I’d relied on to save me from the isolation snapped at me to pull myself together, and with visions of being trapped by landslides, I burst into tears and realised I really didn’t want to be up a hill with a group of people I didn’t know. Lois arrived that evening and with her help I booked a hotel room in Florence, and packed my bag for the next part of the adventure.