Well, I suppose I'm probably becoming repetitive, but, quelle surprise, today is another wonderful dayin France. Being out in nature is doing my writing and me the world of good. I'm feeling calm and healthy. It's hard to believe that just a few short months ago, I was in a psychiatric facility. 

Today's been crisp and cool; cool enough to wear a jumper. Since my jumper is excellent, allow me to show it off. And also to show off my own slightly sunburnt face. 

I prefer to think of it as 'sun-kissed.' 

I woke up early again, and walked out to feed the sheep. My romance with Bob the ram continues, and if anything, is only becoming more passionate as time wears on. I also befriended a chicken, and did not befriend a goose, who went into angry paroxysms of hissing.

I now know 'Fuck off' in goose, and it's 'HSSSSSSSSSSSSKKKKKKK'

Our workshop today was perhaps my favourite so far. We began by being given some local stories in translation; pieces about the successful rebellion against a new nuclear power plant, and moved on to a discussion about how to write history, and moreover, how to write history responsibly. I really, really appreciated that; it's such a valuable part of the craft, and one that should be given far more weight. 

Because I was not the only participant in the workshop, naturally I won't be too detailed about the discussion, but it was exceptionally moderated, and one that left me turning thoughts over and over in my head. I've been ruminating on the responsibilities we have as writers, to write carefully and with consideration for the fact that history is populated not only with events but with people who lived through those events. People who had voices of their own, even if those voices were never elevated or recorded. And it's stiffened my resolve to not only be the best writer I can be, but the kindest, the most principled one. 

Claire was kind enough to give a few of us a lift to the supermarché, and (since it was actually closed) we ended up in a rather nice bar. I've been drinking (in moderation, don't worry Mum) every day since I got here, all the booze is so good and so cheap, and it's going to be a bit of a shock to get back to Manchester where wine is expensive or vinegary. Also, I don't have words for the cider here! It's so light and crisp. Exactly how I imagine it would be to drink cider made from the golden apple in Rubens' Judgement of Paris. Which is probably rather a silly thing to imagine, but, well, I'm silly. 

Doesn't art make you hungry?

Anyway, we made it to the supermarket, and amongst other things, I bought some chocolate and brioche, because every tooth in my head is a sweet tooth. Brioche with Nutella is my new favourite snack.

Dinner was another triumph by Tori, who is not only an extraordinary writer/workshop-deliverer, but also, it transpires, a sublime cook. I'm getting pleasantly plump off her dinners, and also the amazing butter they have here in Brittany. Genuinely considering dumping my clothes and filling my whole hand luggage with butter and cheese.

After dinner, we had the first open mic of the retreat. There was some astonishing work read out, and I was close to tears at various points. I really am here with some amazing writers, and it's so wonderful to be surrounded by creative people. Something that I struggled with in my early twenties was a tendency to self-deprecate around other writers, and to negatively compare my own work, but I think that I'm getting better at having faith in my own work as separate from other people's work, and not drawing comparisons that will harm me. Hurrah for personal growth!

Anyway, this is a fragment of what I read aloud.

People love bluebells, but I have always found them somewhat unnerving. Their colour and fragility makes me think of my own veins. 

            Effy is enraptured by them, and kneels to pick them as though she is a child. She thrusts a fistful of them at me. Their heads loll; like drowned men. 

           ‘You shouldn’t pick those,’ I said. ‘They’re not yours.’

           ‘They’re for you, dummy.’ 

           ‘They’re not mine either.’ 

            She laughs, carelessly. ‘There are thousands and thousands of them, Prue,’ she says. ‘A whole great carpet of them.’

           ‘If everyone who came to your house pulled a lump of pile out of the hearthrug,’ I say, ‘you’d soon start complaining.’ 

            Effy laughs again. ‘For a young woman, you’re such an old man.’ 

            She spills herself across the bench. Since we were fifteen, I have tried to hate her, and fallen short. I have tried to see her as other women do; fat, boorish, brazen. In her white dress, she looks like a felled blossom. The sun catches in her hair, painting it bronze. She is unutterably lovely. One day I will lose her to a man, and break my heart. 

            ‘Do you want to have a look around the house?’ she says. ‘It’s supposed to be very impressive.’

             I want to stay here, among the uncanny ocean of bluebells. I want to take Effy by the back of her throat, and kiss her. Her eyelids have drifted shut. Dusty with white powder. Short, spidery lashes. I want to brush them with my lips. I imagine taking her by surprise, mussing my fingers in her fiery hair.

We go to the house.

Above us in the eaves is a jackdaw’s nest, like a tangle of bones. When I was a child, I thought jackdaws carried off infants to feed their chicks. I am too old to believe such things now. I am too old for spooks, for ghouls, for ghosts. But I am still wary of the jackdaw, as she lopes across the courtyard, ungainly without her wings. Her curved beak makes me want to protect my throat with my hands.