The story of your life

Weekly Writing Prompt No. 77

Hello everyone and welcome to this week’s writing prompt.

For anyone new to The Writing Shed, this is the core of my activity here on Substack. Next week, I am taking a break as I’ll be away in Cornwall. I will return in September.

Have fun and enjoy this week’s reading and writing.

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The Prompt

In October I am leading a life writing retreat and it seems appropriate to begin thinking about it before it springs out on me and I’m unprepared. Life writing, for those who are unfamiliar, is similar to memoir or autobiography but with the depth of personal reflection and analysis.

This week, your task is to craft one of two things: the first is a personal reflection of a journey you’ve taken somewhere and what you learned along the way. The second is to do the same for one of your characters.

If you feel like sharing your thoughts please add it them as a comment below. I’m always curious to read what everyone creates.

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I wrote the following in 2008, it resurfaced in my mind just a few days ago while reflecting on the journeys we all take through life.

I’ve come to Spain in an effort to remove myself from the toxic fallout of a failed marriage. I needed a sanctuary in which to restore my battered self-confidence and bruised ego. A friend’s villa was made available and so here I am in this challenging mix of the bizarrely familiar, the unexpected and the unknown that is the British enclave on the Costa del Bognor.

In just a few short days I’ve come to understand that this must, in some way, create reactions in the local Spanish population similar to those experienced in the UK, when large numbers of foreign immigrants converge on an area and make it their own. And I find it both intimidating and curiously comforting at the same time. This culture is a hybrid of two, and on at least one side of that equation, it is the least appealing (to me) part that has come to the fore.

Travelling alone had so far consisted of sleeping, reading and swimming.  I came for solitude, to get away from people demanding (and usually getting) my attention. And, apart from informing those who cared that I hadn’t written myself and the hire car off in my first experience of driving on the right, I have spoken to no one other than the staff in bars and supermarkets. 

I’ve had the peace, the quiet; the time to think and reflect on a life thus far. I’m struck by how long I’ve lived before being able to do what I wanted when I wanted without taking into account anyone else’s needs and expectations. It’s a sobering thought, and one I resolve to remember when I eventually return home.

Confidence is being restored slowly and surely and my adventurous side, normally tucked away in the confines of the familiar and routine, has suggested that it would be good to get away from Villamartin. After spending so much time in Costa Bognor, I need something approaching the real Spain, so decide to head for the hills and St Miguel de Salinas. 

I go for a swim instead.

It’s amazing how much procrastination I can muster when faced with something unfamiliar so after having a quiet word with myself about being all grown up, I find myself in the hire car, confidently driving through the urbanization.

When a car overtakes me on the right horn blaring as the driver waves at me madly, I realise I’m on the wrong side of the road. Pleased I took out the extra insurance that allows me to do stupid things without fear of the financial consequences; I neglect to remember other consequences such as killing myself or others!

Parallel parking, not usually my strongest skill, is surprisingly easy in a right-hand drive car and to celebrate I take myself off for a gentle walk in the shade of the buildings towards what I assume is the town centre. Using the largest Church spire as my bearings I wander through deserted streets. Snatches of conversation reach my ears through the shutters but I see no one, it’s as if the town has been abandoned in favour of some other place.

Naturally, because it’s hot and mostly closed I gravitate to the church. I often find these are the places to be if you want something approaching an ‘authentic’ experience of a place.

Three elderly women are chatting amongst themselves as they flick dusters around icons and artworks. Up and down the aisles they work, paying me no attention whatsoever. A tap on my shoulder brings me out of my reverie and I find one of the ladies talking to me in rapid Spanish. It quickly becomes obvious to both of us that neither understands the other although I eventually work out she’s inviting me to mass at two o’clock. I’m not a Catholic so politely decline, but it’s nice to be invited.

I put my euro into the electric candle machine feeling nostalgic for the original, taper-lit version and send up a prayer to those I’ve loved, lost and left, and step out into the bright glare of a sky now clear of clouds.

Heading off the main shopping street, I stroll down hill in hopes of finding somewhere not offering chips with everything.  It soon becomes clear that this might be more difficult than I’d imagined. As I go I find myself coming across larger numbers of tourists and ex-pats; almost all speaking English. They gather in packs for protection, afraid to let go of their identity as ‘Brits’. 

Eventually, I come across Café Rincon. With nowhere to sit outside under shade I initially dismiss it. But needs must when you can’t find anything else and taking a deep breath I do something I’m not in the habit of at home, I perch on a stool at the bar.

Before me lies a counter full of wonderful cold tapas, ready to be popped on a plate and served atop a drink. I am, I realise the only English person, everyone else is Spanish but they all smile and nod a welcome. Bearing in mind my Spanish is seriously lacking I’m pleased when my “una café con leche per favour” results in the milky coffee I want.

Closing my eyes, I allow the sounds to wash over me; the rise and fall of the conversation, the change in cadence as a point is made, reinforced, and challenged; and the gentle dance as each person has their say. Backwards and forwards it goes and, as I listen, I begin to get a sense of what they’re talking about. A forthcoming wedding, the fiesta starting Sunday and the misdemeanours of a neighbour’s child.  It is right what they say, it is easier to read or listen to a language than speak it.

Had I been with anyone else I’d have missed this experience and it frames my solitude as positive in a way I hadn’t appreciated before.

The following day, fresh from my adventure, I’m ripe for another challenge and I take myself off to Orihuela; recommended by the guidebook as one of the top 25 places to see on the Costa Bognor.  Its cathedral also comes highly recommended, but the thing that clinches it for me is the promise that it’s free of tourists and ex-pats.

Orihuela sits at the foot of the Sierra Nevada about 25 klicks north of Villamartin. I drive through winding roads lined with almonds, orange and lemon trees, and prostitutes. It takes me a few minutes to comprehend what I’ve noticed at the ends of the long driveways; but for about two kilometres, there they were either singly or in pairs at the entrance to an isolated Finca. This is my first encounter with sex, Spanish style.

The second comes not long after visiting the cathedral.

Wandering back to the main square along a street cluttered with buildings crammed so close together they look decidedly uncomfortable to be at such close quarters. I notice a young guy walking towards me on the opposite side of the street fiddling with what I assume is a man-bag of some description. As we draw level I realise it’s fleshy and large held out in all its glory for me, and anyone else watching, to see.

I think he expects me to be shy and I do hate to disappoint but as I look I can’t help laughing at the absurdity of the situation. Unfortunately, he gets quite agitated, shouting ‘Que? Que?’ which only makes me laugh even harder. Finally, he flees and I’m alone on the street once more.

By the time I’ve arrived in the main square, I’m composed and start the game I began yesterday, counting the number of English speakers I hear. It’s true, this is the real Spain, uncluttered by tourist trappings.

My slightly extended Spanish, courtesy of a phrase book brought along today, enables me to order coffee and still mineral water in the quiet corner café of a tree and scent-filled square. As I sit enjoying the sights and sounds of the real Spain my prejudices rise like a wave, only to be dashed on rocks I hadn't realised were just below the surface. 

Sitting close by are some of the few Brits I’d seen in Orihuela. One is covered from bald head to uncovered foot in tattoos, the others are only slightly less adorned.  Strong regional accents confirm my worst fears until I close my eyes and start hearing snatches of their conversation.  They’re chatting quietly about their Christian ministry and Church, discussing the politics within the hierarchy and how best to approach the problems of accepting themselves and others whilst giving to God. 

My first reaction is to smile, my next to realise just how much I pre-judged them.  A gentle metaphorical slap on the wrist is self-administered, and yet another lesson is learned. I reflect that perhaps I’ve done exactly the same with Costa Bognor and there is more to this beautiful country than I had been willing to give credit.

I've been learning lessons like this regularly over the last couple of years. Each time a realisation, understanding or awareness strikes it’s as if a layer of the onion has been peeled back and, like the opening of Pandora’s Box, I know that I will never be quite the same again.

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Reflect

I include a reflection opportunity with every writing prompt because our writing always wells up from our inner landscape.

I have noticed that when I work with clients much of who they are spills out into their characters, often without realising. Which personal trait, experience or circumstance would you be prepared to use as the basis for a character?

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If you’re a writer who wants to manifest your writing hopes and dreams from the practical and pragmatic to the esoteric and spiritual, or who would like to clear any subconscious self-sabotage you may be experiencing, why not work with me? To find out more head over to my website by clicking the button below.

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Missing in Action

This new section of the weekly newsletter is dedicated to all the words removed from dictionaries and language over the years. Words that define and describe our world, but which are deemed no longer necessary.

This edition is dedicated to the word Supererogation.

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The Weekly Soulshine

Something to ponder …

“Plot is no more than footprints left in the snow after your characters have run by on their way to incredible destinations.” - Ray Bradbury.

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The Weekly Writing Competition

This week I’d like to introduce you to the Storyhouse Travel Nonfiction Contest. Entry is free and should be factual accounts of a trip taken by the author or someone known to them. The closing date is 30th October 2024 and you can enter here: https://storyhouse.org/contest2024.html

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Join Me

There are just one or two places still available.

17th - 20th October - Join Me for a Life Writing Retreat at Othona West Dorset

With love, light, and laughter
Linda
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(Image by Holger Schué from Pixabay)