Dealing with Fear

A View from a Window

It’s five years since I ventured outside. At first it seemed logical. At first there were these duties of care for my partner. An illness to nursed. Then there was Covid, with its life-shutting-down impact. Then there was losing my life partner with all the heartache and brain ache attached to that. Then Covid hung around like a ghost a further daily scourge taking even more revenge on my battered soul. A consequence of was he perpetually feeling safe and unsafe all at once: feeling unsafe outside became the savage norm

My normal lifetime custom of writing outside became impossible. Writing outside remains impossible; the instinct to go outside and walk into town became a lost dream.

They have a name for this condion I believe.

But matters have been changing. The desire to see my daughter and son-in-law who live in France made me take the great leap, inspiring me sufficiently to embrace my fear to get to the airport and into the aeroplane. Eventually to ride in the car through the French countryside, alongside tangled marshland. Open fields and lines of trees creating a kind of order: a worthwhile journey ending up in an atmospheric village in the south of the Languedoc within blinking range of the Mediterranean.

Here in this sunny village I promised myself to challenge my condition and live in a house, looking out on the port through the tangle of ships and out to the sea.

My house in Durham, although in the centre of the little town, is bedded in its large garden among ancient trees and is always quiet.

The house here in the centre of this village is at the core of village activities. There are processions with a marching band, jazz concerts on the bowling square and regular by-passers - both tourists and locals. passing under my windows. I can hear the perpetual murmur of voices, the high chatter of children, the squeaking of children’s scooters. The growl of adults, There is the restrained roar of cars slipping quietly past.

Every day the church bells ring and noon and seven o’clock. On Thursdays there is a night market all along the port, selling a whole range of esoteric goods from children’s toys to fancy crafts and fair ground food. There is a carousel with flashing lights threaded through children’s shouts of glee.

Saint Pierre Festival on Sunday, June 2024. Patron saint of fishermen and sailors.

I can see it all from my window although I have to admit that a couple of times I have ventured down to take a closer look, sitting in one of the cafés on either side of the port. And scribbling.

So at last I am making some progress.

The village is the location for regional festive events throughout the summer, enjoyed by both residents and tourists alike.

And I have found a niche inside the house, where I can write almost as though I am sitting outside the café table, like the days before the challenges of the last three years which stopped me venturing outside. I am longing for this – the opportunity to get on with my new novel which is scratching inside me like hunger.

I have four more weeks. I suppose I should say watch this space!

Wx