Escape

A trip to NZ with friends and writers

There it is below us, hidden in that long white cloud. My stomach lurches with the landing gear, and with a sudden bump and a rushing of brakes, we arrive. My husband crosses himself as he is wont to do.

My head feels fuzzy from lack of sleep. Half a sleeping pill, a 2 am alarm and a three-hour drive have taken away the joy I should feel being on holiday. Still, a Writer’s Retreat, to be exact, the Coromandel Writers Escape. What fun! Some of these writers have been published, or published themselves!

The questions I can’t help asking myself as we push and pull our bags towards the airport exit. “Are you a writer?” “Why are you escaping with other writers?” “What will happen on a Writer’s Escape?” “Will you be able to cope with a collection of writers?” I look up the collective nouns and like the sound of quill, cloud, and argument. I chuckle to myself, how hilarious, but I well know how anxious I will be when speaking in a potential cloud of writers, especially published ones, (sorry, no offence to my writer’s group back home).

Anyway, I’m here now, along with husband and bag, once again far too big and heavy, and my emotional baggage is heavy too, a maze of looping thoughts taking my mind far out of my body. Thank God we’re staying in one place for most of the trip, but who knows where my thoughts will take me?

Pushed forward two hours, we wander out of our hotel to the last event on the Auckland Writers Festival program, Colm Toíbín. I haven’t read any of his books and know very little about the man, or author… however within 2 hours I am pondering a dishevelled, erudite Irishman, a classic man of letters, discussing homosexual marriage amongst other things…not that I’m not sympathetic to his argument, I was expecting more discussion of his books! Mmmm, perhaps I’d better read one. Oh well, I promise myself to read one soon. At least the interview is entertaining, and the seats are very comfortable. I lean back and doze in a Prosecco-induced wooziness.

Monday morning comes shining through the 12th-floor hotel window, and I’m feeling good, well-rested and ready for our onward journey to the Coromandel. My husband has to find a music store renowned for Martin guitars while I take to the Queen Street shopping precinct and spend too much on outdoor wear, thinking it might get very cold, but needing a retail boost. I’m now literally a puffed-up writer escaping.

With the bonus of guilt-free Valet parking, our nifty rental car revs onto Highway 1 and heads for Thames. Images of a big river and a quaint English village come to mind. We’re not disappointed, the reality is a historical gold mining town, complete with assay office, quirky second-hand shops, courtyard cafes, and shiplap churches.

Our old friends from Tassie are waving excitedly from the sidewalk. Hugs all round, a quick coffee stop and a crochet scarf, tweed jacket and vintage shirt later, purchased on a whirlwind tour of op shops by the girls, we rendezvous in the parking lot of Pack and Save. Together with Sharon, Rob and Fiona, we head into the biggest supermarket in town to spend a small fortune on NZ’s finest food.

Cut to the dairy aisle where deciding on Manuka (not Manooka) honey yoghurt is crucial, to argue which particular flavour of Whittaker's dark chocolate will enliven our week, to finally arrive at the highlight of our shopping expedition, the liquor section. Will it be wine from Marlborough or Prosecco from Italy? Did someone say smoked green-lipped mussels? Sharon rushes off to find them.

No one dares “Wonder what the poor people are doing today?”, as they are all around us making different food choices and loading up their trolleys with frozen food, crisps and Coca-Cola. Someone whispers in my ear, and what the hell, I run back for another block of chocolate and a second bottle of wine.

Three hours later, we arrive in Colville, comprising one store, one groovy cafe and one rustic hall. Half a kilometre up the road, our accommodation is a white cottage, looking across a tidal wetland to the volcanic Coromandel Range of greys and greens, topped with rough and rocky peaks.

What could this idyllic retreat have in store for us? Could it be a Picnic at Hanging Rock situation? Dare I say there is a physical similarity, and this landscape could be a defining character in this story. It is alive and demanding our attention, and we in turn respond with rapture and delight. But like all paradisiacal places, there is a darkness that lurks, in the shape of a Maori man on a bicycle, bucket hat pulled low over his face, two dogs running alongside him, and a torrent of abuse.

Rob is the first to encounter him and lets us know his story, which he has firsthand from our hosts. The poor fellow has schizophrenia and is off his meds, and had his car impounded. So at present, he is impelled to ride back and forth to the shop, past our cottage, hurling abuse at his poor dogs and muttering to himself. This makes us all feel a tad uneasy at first, but we’re assured that he is harmless by our lovely hosts. Stimulating a short debate on the state of the NZ mental health system, we relax and accept the situation and are glad we Australians have something in common, hopefully only a mental health crisis, and not knife crime.

Our first night Welcome Dinner is held at Lea and Gary’s place. We meet the other writers and compare notes, if only select personal details. I sit with Donna, a writer of historical fiction, who is tracing her Maori roots. We talk Thai tummy tucks and boob jobs, apparently we have daughters in common who want to renovate their body bits. The evening is a big success.

At this stage, my mind is calm, even with the anxiety generated by the man on the bike. And things stay like this for at least a day or two.

The next day, a trip to Little Bay to do some nature writing, admire the ancient trees and invasive but beautiful Pampus grass, paddle in little rocky coves of glistening waters, grateful this supposedly wild east coast side of the Coromandel is not so wild for us, as we have lucked out on a serene week of weather. Things are going well! This brings us to our third night together.

Talk, talk, talk. After dinner, more talk. I don’t do groups well, but my husband does. He’s on fire, running his lines, quoting his favourite quotes, telling jokes and stories, some I’ve heard a thousand times. Our friends are delighted, they encourage him, and I can but listen. How pathetic I am to be irritated by his monologues. He’s happy, he has forgotten his Stage 4 Cancer and is drinking a bottle of Chivas Regal, throwing caution to the wind. He’s been so disciplined for years now and told me to please stop him from drinking, but there is no stopping. He knocks back another double.

I start to recede, to go inward, to feel lesser than. I’m triggered by conversation topics of old boyfriends and girlfriends that my husband and Sharon have in common. What’s wrong with me? How can I feel so threatened by the past, of 50 years ago? My mind wanders away, backward and forward.

That night I couldn’t sleep, I lay awake thinking silly, repetitive thoughts. I try my trusty breathing exercises, calm abiding meditation, and self-flagellation, but nothing helps my restless mind. Thankfully, the dawn brings relief, my husband rises, and I sink back to sleep. A blessed sleep cycle, a gift of one and a half hours.

For the next few days, I rally, I sleep, I’m all in. Everyone joins the expedition to Stony Bay, the most northerly point of the peninsula and the end of the road. Here we picnic, lie on the stony beach, climb into old Pohutakawa trees, and immerse ourselves in the luscious landscape. Old Maori souls are here, and a male kiwi calls at dusk from the forest to be answered by a female that sounds a lot like a cat vomiting a guttural “Colin, Colin”. Eagles are everywhere, soaring above us, watching over our playground and their empire.

It’s day five, I decide I’m not a writer….I’ve barely written apart from a few scribbled notes from sensory prompts our retreat leader, Kerrie, gave us on our first day. I tried a writing exercise that Sharon gave me. Here it is.

Who am I?

Undefined, indefinite, mutable,

Intangible, oscillating

I am from a music box and turning ballerina

A lace handkerchief and bluebird brooch

Intricate, precious, quiet

I am from roses

Fragrant, sharp and velvet smooth

From cream and brown sugar

and alcoholics

From Dick and Betty

From William and Daisy

I’m from the shouty bit and angry rant

Tennis playing, cake baking, mummy

Plane flying, drinking daddy

From the do unto others and little birds agreeing

I’m from Sunday school and the C of E

White dress, wafers and wine and the

Lords Prayer remembered

I’m from Sydney and Avalon, and the British Isles

Roast lamb and Pavlova

From the lost brother

I am

I go to bed that night feeling lighter, but once again, sleep is evasive. Another night of trying to tame my elephant mind, mixed with performance anxiety for the next day’s workshops. I know I will turn up nevertheless, Sharon would be horrified if I dropped out, so I keep telling myself that I can’t spoil the fun.

A disused cafe is the venue, and by 10 am, we are all seated, waiting to start. I’m tired and dispirited, but make notes anyway. Curious about the process, I follow the prompts. Bazinga!

Take your reader on a journey. Give 20 reasons for digging in the backyard.

A story suddenly comes back to me about a Steiner teacher from Australia who is burying a story he has written in a remote part of Turkey. He is following a recurring dream telling him to travel with a donkey and write stories to bury for his unborn children. He will create a map and clues for them to follow. This will be my story premise: a journey of creativity and discovery, about parent/child relationships…I’m inspired!

Maybe I won’t stop writing just yet.