My writer's retreat... that wasn't
I think it's a turning point in any writer's career when they decide they need to go for a writer's retreat. Here's the sorry tale of how mine was a fantastic failure. 
Last month, my husband had some of his friends over for a board games weekend. I decided to use this opportunity to do something I'd wanted to try out for a while-- a writer's retreat! I planned to head off to the next town where I'd booked an Airbnb. Just me, my laptop and the peace and quiet. Or so I thought.
On the day, my husband had invited me to the pub for lunch with his friends, but in my mind whilst that would be amazing food, that would be hours wasted when I could be writing. So I said a polite no, waved goodbye as they headed off and waited for my uber.
10 mins before it was due to pick me up, Uber cancelled the booking. It was with a fly by night text, that disappeared once I saw it. No drivers available in my area.
I don't have a car, and it's now too late to join the group at the pub. I pack up, take some instant noodles, hot chocolate and cuppa soup sachet from the pantry, along with 2 candy bars and locked up the house. I headed down to the local Co-op to use the cashpoint there, but it was out of money.
That blew my chance of catching the bus nearby, but okay. I walked downhill to the overground station and used the cashpoint there, which charged me money to take out money. It started to rain. I then turn to the one and only taxi available.. to find it already had a passenger in it.
Getting a little annoyed, I walked across the street and waited 15 mins for the bus. The fare cost all of £3.50. I caught the bus, let the Airbnb host know that I was running late, and eventually got to the next town. No taxis in sight.
I figured that's okay, I may need to memorize the route anyway, so I started walking. Thank God for google maps. The reviews said the property was only a pleasant 25 min walk from the town.
The reviewer was wrong.
An hour later, I had walked through town and encountered a main road with the national speed limit. This made me feel very unsafe as there was no walkway for pedestrians and so unless you want to dive into a hedge or thorny bush, you're just walking and hoping a car sees you. But I was doing this near 3.30pm, and it was starting to turn to dusk.
I really didn't like this, so I turned off into a residential neighbourhood. It might take longer and took me tromping through muddy fields but at least I'd be safe. As my shiny black brogues sank into mud, I was reminded of how I'm a city person.
I found my back onto the main road, sticking to the hedges as it began to get dark, when I called the host and asked for directions. Shortly thereafter I heard a voice call to me across a field, it was my host!
We met and she asked, "Have you brought any food?"
I replied yes and she said, "Oh good."
The reason being that due to the remoteness of the place, the internet connection was poor and wifi was spotty. She led me to a teeny tiny building that's not even a cottage. I don't know what to call it. Like a tiny mini tower that's all one room, except for a bathroom. My host built up the fire, showed me where things were and left me to it.
The place itself was nice, tiny hard sofa and a stand up tv tray (but no TV), plus a large ladder that leads up to the loft that if you're not careful you'll walk into when you first enter the building. I had some lunch (a sachet of instant cuppa soup) and got to work.
The host was right, the wifi was spotty. The fire soon died out and despite my attempts to relight it, it was staying out. Things got cold fast, and I ended up huddling under a thin blanket as I ate my dinner (more instant noodles). I'd planned to treat myself to a takeaway meal of fried chicken but that wasn't happening. When I tried to book a taxi to the train station for the next morning, I almost gave up hope, the reception was so bad.
That night I got some writing done, watched a period drama on YouTube and drank some tea, then tried my best to make sure the door to the place was locked but failed, so leaned a chair against it, and climbed up the stairs into the loft. I'd forgotten to bring pyjamas or a shirt to sleep in. So I got in under the covers mostly naked, and woke up at 4am freezing.
It was cold. I thought to myself, oh it'll be fine, warm air rises. Well so does cold air, and the loft was bloody freezing. By 7am I got up, shivered my way into some clothes and down the ladder and had a glass of orange juice. It was so cold I stood over the small space heater for warmth, as nowhere else in the big room was warm. My taxi amazingly came and after standing in the rain for a bit, I got a train to London.
I met my mother in law at the British Museum and despite a few hiccups, we had a lovely time catching up. Then we parted ways and I went to the British Library to do more writing. Every seat was taken, every outlet plugged. I finally found a spare seat on a bench and opened my computer to find...
None of my writing from last night had saved. Not a single word. Which was the entire point of the writing retreat in the first place. #EpicFail
I tried to remember what I could, and gave up at around 4.30, which was just as well as the library began to close. Thankfully I checked trains and discovered there were no trains from King's Cross, or Finsbury Park. Never mind, I took the tube to Liverpool street, to discover no trains there either. I ended up having to go to Stratford to go back home, then as my phone died, walk 45 mins in the rain across town to get home. It took me 3 hours to get home (not a normal occurance).
My husband was like, are you okay?
All I wanted was to huddle in a blanket. I felt like I'd basically spent the weekend being cold, damp and wet, and paying far too much money to get no work done. I left a nice review as the Airbnb itself was nice, the host was lovely and I dont think she should be blamed for the weather or the poor wifi connection. But when it comes to writer's retreats, I'll think again.
Last month, my husband had some of his friends over for a board games weekend. I decided to use this opportunity to do something I'd wanted to try out for a while-- a writer's retreat! I planned to head off to the next town where I'd booked an Airbnb. Just me, my laptop and the peace and quiet. Or so I thought.On the day, my husband had invited me to the pub for lunch with his friends, but in my mind whilst that would be amazing food, that would be hours wasted when I could be writing. So I said a polite no, waved goodbye as they headed off and waited for my uber.
10 mins before it was due to pick me up, Uber cancelled the booking. It was with a fly by night text, that disappeared once I saw it. No drivers available in my area.
I don't have a car, and it's now too late to join the group at the pub. I pack up, take some instant noodles, hot chocolate and cuppa soup sachet from the pantry, along with 2 candy bars and locked up the house. I headed down to the local Co-op to use the cashpoint there, but it was out of money.
That blew my chance of catching the bus nearby, but okay. I walked downhill to the overground station and used the cashpoint there, which charged me money to take out money. It started to rain. I then turn to the one and only taxi available.. to find it already had a passenger in it.
Getting a little annoyed, I walked across the street and waited 15 mins for the bus. The fare cost all of £3.50. I caught the bus, let the Airbnb host know that I was running late, and eventually got to the next town. No taxis in sight.
I figured that's okay, I may need to memorize the route anyway, so I started walking. Thank God for google maps. The reviews said the property was only a pleasant 25 min walk from the town.
The reviewer was wrong.
An hour later, I had walked through town and encountered a main road with the national speed limit. This made me feel very unsafe as there was no walkway for pedestrians and so unless you want to dive into a hedge or thorny bush, you're just walking and hoping a car sees you. But I was doing this near 3.30pm, and it was starting to turn to dusk.
I really didn't like this, so I turned off into a residential neighbourhood. It might take longer and took me tromping through muddy fields but at least I'd be safe. As my shiny black brogues sank into mud, I was reminded of how I'm a city person.
I found my back onto the main road, sticking to the hedges as it began to get dark, when I called the host and asked for directions. Shortly thereafter I heard a voice call to me across a field, it was my host!
We met and she asked, "Have you brought any food?"
I replied yes and she said, "Oh good."
The reason being that due to the remoteness of the place, the internet connection was poor and wifi was spotty. She led me to a teeny tiny building that's not even a cottage. I don't know what to call it. Like a tiny mini tower that's all one room, except for a bathroom. My host built up the fire, showed me where things were and left me to it.
The place itself was nice, tiny hard sofa and a stand up tv tray (but no TV), plus a large ladder that leads up to the loft that if you're not careful you'll walk into when you first enter the building. I had some lunch (a sachet of instant cuppa soup) and got to work.
The host was right, the wifi was spotty. The fire soon died out and despite my attempts to relight it, it was staying out. Things got cold fast, and I ended up huddling under a thin blanket as I ate my dinner (more instant noodles). I'd planned to treat myself to a takeaway meal of fried chicken but that wasn't happening. When I tried to book a taxi to the train station for the next morning, I almost gave up hope, the reception was so bad.
That night I got some writing done, watched a period drama on YouTube and drank some tea, then tried my best to make sure the door to the place was locked but failed, so leaned a chair against it, and climbed up the stairs into the loft. I'd forgotten to bring pyjamas or a shirt to sleep in. So I got in under the covers mostly naked, and woke up at 4am freezing.
It was cold. I thought to myself, oh it'll be fine, warm air rises. Well so does cold air, and the loft was bloody freezing. By 7am I got up, shivered my way into some clothes and down the ladder and had a glass of orange juice. It was so cold I stood over the small space heater for warmth, as nowhere else in the big room was warm. My taxi amazingly came and after standing in the rain for a bit, I got a train to London.
I met my mother in law at the British Museum and despite a few hiccups, we had a lovely time catching up. Then we parted ways and I went to the British Library to do more writing. Every seat was taken, every outlet plugged. I finally found a spare seat on a bench and opened my computer to find...
None of my writing from last night had saved. Not a single word. Which was the entire point of the writing retreat in the first place. #EpicFail
I tried to remember what I could, and gave up at around 4.30, which was just as well as the library began to close. Thankfully I checked trains and discovered there were no trains from King's Cross, or Finsbury Park. Never mind, I took the tube to Liverpool street, to discover no trains there either. I ended up having to go to Stratford to go back home, then as my phone died, walk 45 mins in the rain across town to get home. It took me 3 hours to get home (not a normal occurance).
My husband was like, are you okay?
All I wanted was to huddle in a blanket. I felt like I'd basically spent the weekend being cold, damp and wet, and paying far too much money to get no work done. I left a nice review as the Airbnb itself was nice, the host was lovely and I dont think she should be blamed for the weather or the poor wifi connection. But when it comes to writer's retreats, I'll think again.
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