Tag Archives: Writer’s Retreats

A Writer’s Retreat in Spain… kindred spirits & hometowns

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The waiter places a dish of bacalao – confit of codfish – before me at Casa Grau Bistro. The Valencian creation is dappled with capers, pine nuts, slivered almonds and Javea’s legacy, raisins. “Like a painting,” he says with a wry smile.

As Javea was once an international exporter of raisins, I thought it was fitting to sample some and oh my, what a sublime blend of flavours. The long, leisurely luncheon is made even more enjoyable by Jacob, the Dutch transplant who’s made Javea his hometown for the past thirty-four years. He’s charming and witty, fitting right in with the our group gathered from around the world… The Netherlands, The UK, Canada, Australia and Spain itself.

“There’s just something special here and I could never go back home,” Jacob confides. The lunch has been a lovely ending to the excursion of the old town and as we leave, Jacob reverts to his Dutch culture and gifts me with a ‘three-kiss goodbye.’ “I’ll tell my mother that I’ve met someone from her home province in The Netherlands,” I promise.

Led by my dear friend, Jo Parfitt, publisher, mentor and co-author of Monday Morning Emails, the writing retreat includes these leisurely lunches, dinners and tapas moments… an opportunity to connect with fellow writers. They’re also a chance to sample the local life style in what is said to be one of the prettiest towns along the Costa Blanca. I’ve been to nearby Alicante, yet Javea is known to have a special luminousity of colour and light, a richness of life. My good friend Nikki – author of The Soul’s Compass – and I made the commitment ages ago to attend the retreat; a good excuse to meet again, to be inspired in our writing, and why not, it’s Spain!


Today, our group has meandered from the seaside and sheltered lower bay of Javea, up a gentle inclined road to the historic old town; a labyrinth of historic cobbled streets, pretty tiles on white washed homes and quaint plazas ideal for tapas stops. We are at once delighted by the richness and history of the town.

We meet Josh, our tour guide and Jo’s son, at the Mercato. The bustling indoor market is filled with a local’s favourite Cocteleria, Cocina, Panaderia and all those stalls bursting with earth-hued olives, mossy-green artichokes, cured Iberian ham, oil-bathed pimentos, seafood of every type, and sangria for inspiration! Like Jacob at the bistro, Josh has also settled here and is eager to reveal the history and secrets of his now-hometown.

As we exit the Mercato, across the way is the prominent Church of San Bartolome. Standing since 1304, it’s had time to expand to the fort-like edifice that once protected the locals from marauding Barbary pirates. As the tour begins, the bell tower which once doubled as a watchtower, makes itself known with a deep, rich cascade of bells. Charmingly, the carillon has individual identities too – Victoria, Sebastiana, Bertomeua – and are revered by the locals.

Making our way along narrow streets, Josh points out the many niches embedded high up on building walls. Behind the glass are carved wooden statues of San Sebastian, Javea’s Patron Saint. It was his duty to protect the town against the deadly plague in the middle ages and still today, each street may have its own niche, for prayer, for protection.

We also peek into the Soler Blasco Museum, housed in a magnificent rough stone facade. Built in the mid-1600’s by Antoni Banyuls, once a butler to King Felipe III, my eye is drawn to the Roman amphorea languishing in the lush courtyard. An amphora is a two-handled storage jar that held olive oil, wine, milk or grain; their pointed base allowed them to sit upright in soft ground or sand. I ponder their ages of use as the Romans, Visigoths, the Moors, and now the Spanish have all lived centuries of life on these shores. “Javea is a mongrel casserole, a melting pot, a rich and colourful fusion of history,” Josh tells us. We wander happily, delight in more local history, and I ask him how he had come to live here.

Like Jacob at the restaurant who had shared that he visited here on holiday and never really left, Josh tells me that this was never the place he planned or imagined moving to.

“I was posted here as a journalist to cover the Costa Blanca in English. I’d never even heard of it until I arrived in 2019. Discovering its history, culture and hidden secrets were a by-product of me covering it as a news writer and later as a content writer for local businesses. When I was furloughed during the Covid lockdown, I nearly went back to London to further my journalism career. But then realised, almost by accident, small-town Javea had become a place where I could walk down any street and probably bump into a familiar face. As someone who moved between 5-6 countries as a child, that was the kind of thing I always felt I had missed out on.”

I nod knowingly, so very knowingly. It echoes how my own children felt after being raised globally, moving from one continent to another. In fact, Jo’s and my account of this very specific way of life as expat mothers is the basis for our book, Monday Morning Emails. Like Josh, my three sons had a rich and varied childhood in various countries and cultures, yet they too didn’t have a hometown to call their own.

“Sure Javea is amazing – always a top 10 place in Spain to live.” Josh says. “But for me, it’s a place where I feel part of the community, that’s what has made me stay.”

It’s late afternoon as we stroll back to the seaside and I ponder how life has unfolded for Jo and myself since our book launch in 2018 at her lovely home in The Hague. I was living in India when we began writing emails back and forth, realizing we had so much to share about living a global life. Though time has passed, we’ve been fortunate to see each other in various places since… and now in this lovely spot.

A place where just beyond are shoulders of hills dotted with palm trees and neatly lined grapevines. Where white-washed and mustard-yellow villas of the once merchant families, now contrast with gleaming white and glass of expansive villas nestled in the hillside. Here, where the extraordinary play of light on the sea against the ginger cliffs has long rendered Javea as inspiring… indeed, quite the ideal spot for a writer’s retreat.

Over four days and three evenings, we writers take guidance from Jo and inspiration from each other. We ponder, muse, conjure words and stories. We delight in early morning walks along the seafront, we wine & dine, and share our work. We make new friends and rejoice in simply being with kindred spirits, all the while thankful for being cocooned from life’s daily commitments. Jo has inspired many writers and authors along the way, and as I know myself from my own writing workshops, the real reward is motivating fellow writers to put words to paper.

A quote from one of my participants from a workshop in Slovenia has always stuck with me. “Thank you so much for opening this new door for me. I’ve always known I can write, however, I never imagined that you could turn almost anything into a story. A child’s laugh… a van ride in the Cambodian countryside… my morning coffee… my feelings towards my grandma. You showed me that anything is possible. Can’t wait to create more! ”

And so, we writers also depart with a new zest for storytelling and renewed writing commitments. After the farewells, I decide to remain a few more days instead of going back to Barcelona to finish this Spanish sojourn. I move to the lovely Botanico Boutique Hotel, my balcony open wide to the sea-salt air and the hues of blue sky and sea seemingly melding into one glorious painting. I dip my toes in the cool Mediterranean Sea. I savour and soak up my beloved palm trees. I write some more. I stroll back up to the old town and like magic there’s Jacob. Savouring a repose at the door of Casa Grau, he greets me with three kisses, “Meisje, hoe gaat het?”

As Jo and I have one last chat at my favourite coffee stop overlooking the sea, the conversation meanders to our children. “It’s been so nice to see Josh again,” I tell her, “and how lovely you get to come here to visit!”

She comments on how special it must be for me to have our three children in one place. “It really is,” I agree. “It’s something Bruce and I couldn’t have imagined after so many years overseas. And like your kids Jo, they finally have their hometown, they’ve bloomed where they’ve planted themselves. Luke works virtually as a Communications Expert, Matt works locally in the Trades, and Andrew has a prominent position with our city’s Chamber of Commerce. And then there’s our two special daughters-in-law, even a grand-puppy!”

“So very blessed,” Jo agrees. “Sam is doing well in London and Josh is happy and settled here as you see.” After writing our book, Jo and I were often asked how our kids were, especially by readers who also lived a peripatetic life and could relate to the challenges. We’ve always been thankful that our collective five sons were gracious enough to allow us to share their journeys.

We also have gratitude for a friendship that began at a writing retreat in Tuscany. We reminisce that we once lived as neighbours, side by side for a month in The Hague. We speak fondly of the book project we worked on together in Penang, Malaysia and we share updates of mutual friends from both Families In Global Transition and writing retreats… the blessing of kindred spirits indeed!

With a final hug and a fond farewell, Jo and I part for now. The taxi arrives and I begin the long journey back to Canada… through Alicante, Barcelona, Paris, to Calgary. It’s been a fantastic trip, yet I feel the anticipation of being back in my hometown too.

Post Script

Josh can be found at https://townsquareseo.com/

Nikki Cornfields book, The Soul’s Compass and Monday Morning Emails can be ordered on amazon

Jo Parfitt can be found at https://www.joparfitt.com/

‘I Am’… The Embrace Of A Writer’s Retreat

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My year has ended in the embrace of a cherished, almost spiritual experience. My husband often chides me and asks if he can switch places as I venture off to a writer’s retreat – this time it was to Penang, Malaysia. I don’t blame him, I know how fortunate I am and it is partly because of the retreat experience that I am, where I am.

At a retreat, it is the inspiration found, the treasured time with kindred spirits who share the love of words and story telling. It is the mutual appreciation of the indulgent cocoon a retreat offers – of putting aside your everyday life and following your creative soul.

‘Retreating’ is five or so days of immersion in something you love to do – or believe that you just might. And of course the long animated dinners, the inspiring ‘field trips’, and the new (and established) friendships are also part of the experience. On the second to last day in Penang, we writers ended an already creative day at the beach, soaking up the beauty and the tranquility. It was just before sunset and we thanked the universe for the fullness of the day. We breathed in the moment and appreciated what we were sharing – never to be repeated and now imprinted forever on our writer’s souls.

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My first retreat in Tuscany also comes to mind. A short train journey to Lucca found four of us venturing no further than the closest piazza where we wined and dined the afternoon away. After all, one of the writers was a famous London based screen writer – you can imagine the stories flowed as easily as the chianti! Oh we were so full of love – for the setting we found ourselves in, for the new-found friendships, for the sheer magic of a time and a place. I’ve written of that retreat in Tuscany and how it was a life- changing experience. Inspiring retreats in Phuket have also contributed to my growth as a writer and I encourage anyone not quite sure of the retreat experience, to go… if possible, make the commitment to this next phase of your writing, to yourself.

Each retreat seems to unfold like a richly, layered novel. As the days pass, writers reveal themselves in the slow flowering of creativity – in the comfort of a safe-zone with your fellow writers. Yes at times we ‘block’, we’re hesitant about the ‘task’, we worry that a piece of work doesn’t ‘measure up’. Yet it’s often these growing pains when we stretch ourselves that improves our writing, and together we produce a beloved body of work. Prose that you are the first to savour at those privileged late afternoon or evening readings. Writings where you are wonderfully transported, then pluck a favourite thought or line for yourself to cherish. Maybe a piece truly moves you and your fellow writer is lavished with encouragement… “This is what you must write, this is your voice, your story!” 

And as you find your own voice and dig a little deeper, your writing becomes more vulnerable and truthful. Perhaps humour comes to you, or even poetry – as it does with me, but only it seems when I’m ‘retreating’. In Penang, a clear inspiration for a new book revealed itself – an inspiration for historical fiction. Having co-authored a coffee table/history book about Penang last year, one of its historical characters gently ‘whispered’ to me as we spent time in the storied Suffolk House… ‘Tell my story, from a woman’s perspective,” she seemed to entreat. It was a sentiment echoed by my fellow writers and I hope to do so… to do justice to the story.

Inevitably a retreat draws to a close and you say your farewells, knowing that somehow this is where you were meant to have been. The words and ideas, the inspiration and the friendships get packed into your suitcase… as carefully as your brimming notebooks.

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Once back home in India, I was thrown immediately into work as I am nearing the completion of my latest book project. With my friend and mentor, Jo Parfitt, we are in the final phase of a book that will be published in March. Monday Morning Emails is the vulnerable and honest account of expat life… the tears, the joys and the tough stuff. Combined, we have created homes for our families in Japan, Dubai, Qatar, Malaysia, Scotland, Canada, Oman, England, Kazakhstan, the US, Norway and India. We have raised five sons globally and supported husbands in the oil/energy business for the past twenty-five years, ish! We’re confident that we have a compelling story to tell and along with Experts who will enlighten on some of the issues, we’re excited about introducing it at the next FIGT.

Yes, I believe none of this would have transpired if I had not ventured to retreats where I’ve found my passion, my confidence, and guidance through Jo Parfitt and Anne O’Connell – and from the writers who have become part of my ‘near and far writer’s circle’.

And of the writing from these retreats? Many pieces have found their way into a blog, an article, a presentation, or even into that upcoming book. Yet there are some pieces that wait quietly in my writing file, hoping to glimpse the light of day. And so why not? Today I thought I’d share a few of those ‘ forgotten darlings’ and one new from Penang… allowing a little sunlight to fall on those pages.

 

Paradise Writers’ Retreat, Phuket. Task: we were handed a piece of salt water taffy to sample and asked to write a short story in thirty minutes…

Salt Water Taffy

“Welcome to Pier 21,” the tour guide boomed. He was gentlemanly and older. Perhaps the same age as my mother who stood beside me on this ‘girl’s trip.’

“Folks before we begin, I’d like to welcome you with a salt water taffy, a treat from Nova Scotia. One for each of you,” the guide said cheerily, proffering them to the group.

The wrapping on the candy looked clean and childlike – the white and blue lighthouse signaling safety. Or was it the unexpected, even danger.

I hesitantly unwrapped the mass of sugar and soy, my lips already puckered in defiance.

“Gawwd, I can’t eat this mom,” I moaned, nibbling off a mouse-like bite under duress. “It’s ghastly!”

I looked at my mom whose jaw was already moving up and down; like a gum boot pulling out of mud, like honey dripping in slow motion.

“I love it,” she managed to mumble while masticating the sticky mass.

“Seriously, I can’t believe it,” I said incredulously. “You don’t like anything sweet, not even chocolate.”

“Annie, it was the first treat given to us when we reached this shore after sailing from Holland. The first bite I ever took on Canadian soil,” Mom said, managing a smile through the stringy taffy. She was already reaching for my wee-nibbled piece.

 

 

Writer’s Retreat at The Watermill Posara, Tuscany. Task: at the local village market, find one person to focus on, write…

Market at Fivizzano

They amble into Piazza Medicea, hands clasped behind hunched backs, they fold easily into the bustle. Bonjourno Signorie, they nod.
Stalls gathered geometrically inside walls of creme, ochre and terracotta,
shutters green, new and cracked, some open, most shut.

Reggiano, porchetto, parmignano like a marble block.
Sausage, salami, puffed like fingers reaching down.
A quick glance at the fish and its lifeless steely eyes, a chop of its head,
efficiently wrapped for lunchtime. Grazie Mille… Prego!

Beans, zolfini and piattellini also don’t entice.
Plump tomatoes, zucchini, and fennel, ignored.
Cheap sandles and belts – distractions.

The bells chime, strangled to some, but marking noon and
the piazza clears, the tourists depart.
Now, finally, at Piccola Cucina their chairs are free.
A Moretti, an espresso? No difference, the conversations begins…

 

 

Paradise Writers’ Retreat, Phuket. Task: trip to the beach, the shade of a palm tree our ‘office’. Write Misbehave and Suffocate, You’re a Beach Bum…

You’re a Beach Bum 

The crash of the waves imitated the rhythm of our love making. And when it happened, my mind crawled out of the suffocating hole this beach has buried me in.

I believe in one-hundred years time, I’ll be referred to as a beach bum. I’m certainly not here by choice.

The sinking of the steamship has marooned us somewhere in Asia, at least the Captain is quite certain of that. Coconuts clump together on tall palm trees, sand as fine as sugar creeps into every pore, and the sun beats down, relentless on our fair skin. At night, the air fills with haunting sounds from the nearby jungle; monkeys and birds and mosquitoes that pester endlessly. I loathe it all.

Seven of us Saloon passengers have survived. We were enroute to the majestic Rocky Mountains of Canada, a passage to mark the turn of the century. With suites booked at the glamorous new CPR Hotels in Banff and Lake Louise, oh how very excited we were!

We had sailed from Australia and the journey had been fine – morning strolls on the deck, afternoon high-tea at promptly 3 p.m, dinner at precisely 7. Oh and the invitation to the Captain’s table… it was beyond refinement and glorious. And all those eligible young bachelors, gone, to the depths of the oceans… and my hopes along with them.

Now we survivours wither in the blazing sun, including Marnie, my cruel and obtuse aunt. Tasked with chaperoning her eligible young niece, she now looks at me with disdain as I release my golden curls from my bejewelled hair pins. She glowers as I push up my bustier and straighten my under-slip. In this savage heat, I’ve long discarded my frilly, cumbersome frock.

Marnie has refused to unclothe herself. Her long flowing dress has frayed at the hem and she’s ever more prude-like as she continuously brushes sand from her tall, straight as a bamboo self. It’s as if the sand is the contagious disease that we’re all likely to succumb to any day now.

I no longer care. Last night’s moonlit rendezvous has changed everything, I want him again tonight. Oh joy indeed, the shackles of modesty and correctness have been truly broken.

 


Me-Treats, Penang. Task: who are you, tell us in verse or poem

I Am…

I am a daughter of a beautiful woman, IMG_1792one of her ‘pride and joys’. And I hold that dear, like a grandmother’s finest crystal. My treasured mother is my touchstone, my heart.

And I am a mother. One who loves and laughs, who cries and listens, who shares so much joy – yet longs for the soft caress of her babys’ touch. A mother of three sons; their love stamped on my unfailing maternal heart.

I am a wife who holds my travel companion’s secrets, his hopes and desires – his well lived yearbooks of life and our life’s treasured past. I turn to him often and whisper, “I never want this to be over.”

I am a true friend who holds friends dear – the laughter, the insights, the secrets… the stories of our lives.

And oh, how I am a traveler – one who has roamed and traversed, soaked in and marvelled at this compelling, glorious world. Its labels are firmly attached to my wanderlust soul – Florence and Oman, Singapore and old Siam, Osaka and Amsterdam, Kathmandu and even old Madras.

Most assuredly, I am a writer and a researcher. Give me the past to unravel, the characters of old to pluck out like fine golden nuggets – to relive their journeys and dreams. Or maybe it is the romance of the Renaissance, the storied sagas of the Vikings, the rich history and minareted sky of pretty Istanbul… all of it, I am.

Lastly, I am the calm and the bluest of oceans, the greenest of rainforests. The vibrant verve of a city – chiseled architecture and sparkling sights, or silk and saffron in packed, lively bazaars. Yet give me the beauty of a flourishing garden to find calm and solace in its gentlest pinks and softest whites – water lilies, fragrant frangipanis and velvety Dutch tulips.

Yes, I am the tapestry of my life – still richly weaving… thread, by thread, by precious thread.

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Post Script – I encourage you to take some time over this holiday season and write… I Am. Take the opportunity to appreciate you, your loves, your passions, the richness of what makes you, you. Once claimed on ‘paper’, it is there for you always.

For me, along with my next project, I am happily joining a few more retreats in 2018, yet I am now also hosting my own workshops. Let’s hope they too will inspire and evolve into retreats… I have a location or two in mind!  

And lastly, I offer many warm wishes, good health and peace for this holiday season and the New Year… fondly, Terry Anne xx

 

 Jo Parfitt’s Me-Treats are held in various locations, Tuscany for Write Your Life Story

 Anne O’Connell’s Paradise Writer’s Retreats are now held in Halifax, Nova Scotia