Regular readers of my blog will remember my very first post, prompted by my rather exquisite notebook and Margaret O’ Brien’s writing workshop. Today, I had the enormous pleasure and humble honour of spending the day writing in the home of esteemed former writer Molly Keane, now home to her daughter Virginia and her Oscar winning husband, Kevin.
As always, Margaret’s calm manner gave the stories hiding within me, an avenue to waltz boldly out and announce themselves. The serene setting of this house is truly beyond words alone. The inside of the home is like a time capsule, nestled amidst bookcases and lavish carpeting, window seats and open fireplaces. The smell of turf is heavy in the air and the time stands still. Writing prompts in hand, we stepped outside to find an individual nook in which to explore our psyche.
No sound reached my ears save the distant crash of the waves onto the shore. A light breeze ruffled my pages but it was a pleasant addition to the day. High above the sea, in an enviable cranny in the cliffside, many years previous, Molly Keane created her magic. Today, i felt this same magic stirring through my veins. Her house was a fairytale, frozen in time, her garden a hive of activity for nature. Pathways darted into the woods in the garden, the occasional garden bench to be found along the way and the sound of nature alive in all its glory in my ears. Here, the past is alive and from the moment i stepped foot into the magical garden, i stepped into the past.
My pen tore furiously through the pages. Today, life was breathed onto the pages in the home of Molly Keane and the sound was breathtaking. To have such an opportunity some 45 minutes from my front door is a true joy to behold and I am honoured and humbled to have been given this opportunity. From the moment I opened the small metal gate at the top of the garden, to the moment I left through this same gate, I was different. Not in any obvious, notable way but inside, I was different. Alive, ignited, I was a writer.