May 7: Culture Shock

Yesterday we found ourselves in the only gîte for 5km in any direction. As we had paid for a private room, we slept in an outhouse, offering neither internet, nor cellular, nor the dry-warmth one might seek on a wet spring evening. For these comforts, and for food, we had to go to the “Big House”, which was itself a palaver: shoes had to be swapped for communal crocs/slippers at the door; bags were not allowed beyond a holding area, so plastic bins were provided to take your essentials to your sleeping quarters; an honour system operated for the fridge and kettle.

We arrived, as required, for dinner at 7pm, to find that everyone else had seated themselves and somehow left no space for us. Our hosts had table A swap places with table B and miraculously created the 2 seats we required, but also a degree of disgruntlement that being the only non-French-speakers present did nothing to dislodge.

We got through dinner (communal table, shared plates, clean your own crockery) without further incident, but when we returned (damply and chilled) for breakfast and someone picked up a guitar and started a sing-a-long, Carey declared he had entered “Commie hell”. There were people drinking coffee from bowls; a guy playing flamenco before 8am; a trio of female walkers singing a matins-style roundelay; a “fry your own eggs” station; while people carried loads of washing up and down the stairs to the dryer (which they had clearly hoped not to have to pay for, but had woken to damp clothes and a 10am exit deadline)… It was the poshest camino hostel you could wish for, but probably 3-steps too communal for Carey before his first coffee! He riffed on the theme and set me to hysterical giggles – much to the perplexity of our neighbours!

I wrote another poem today. When the words come, I open my phone; start an email and (trying not to turn an ankle or break my neck) type what comes. I send it to myself. If more words come, I reply to the original email until they are done. When we get in, I transfer the thread to Word and do a first-pass polish. I have had many voices in my writing journey. At the moment, I am (perhaps) a nature poet, with enormous thanks to my amazing friend, Anne.

My previous editor and poetry mentor died in 2023. When I felt my next book was ready (in late 2025), I knew I couldn’t complete it alone. Anne rashly accepted my request to help me edit the collection. It was a revelation. The best giving happens when the giving feels trivial to the giver, but transformational for the receiver. Anne’s fresh eye and gentle coaching has encouraged me to embrace the relatability and accessibility of my writing, without pre-judging triteness. Triteness is still immanent, but I am more personal, more descriptive in this season. When I get home, we’ll see if any of them make the cut.