Country road

Text

A strategic retreat

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The road leading to Villa Lugara, which is perched on a hillside about an hour outside Bologna, snakes upwards through a series of hairpin bends, and the car we are in is struggling. Despite being new and looking very much like it was built for this arduous purpose, it occurs to me that this car on this journey is an apt metaphor for how I’m feeling – emotionally, physically and artistically:

The destination is known, scenic, inviting. However, there are twists and turns around which I have no idea what lurks. Meanwhile, I’m projecting an image of cool, writerly control, whilst struggling to summon the energy required to get there.

It had been a difficult 11 months up to this point – I’d lost my mother who we’d cared for at home, I’d lost my confidence as a writer – lost touch with him – and I was exhausted. Added to this, I was apprehensive about the experience I was about to embark on. I’d been on writers’ retreats before, but they were much earlier in my career and much shorter, designed to help with craft and structure. This was going to be four weeks with five other writers, all experienced and respected, developing ideas we wanted to work on.

My brown, northern, working-class identity was weighing heavily on me. My journey into writing had been serendipitous, and I’d never been able to shake off that feeling that my writing career had been a fluke. So, my apprehension at being in illustrious company was likely to be well founded. At least that was what I thought.

Upon arrival, the first person I met was a novelist whose work I knew and admired. ‘You’re Ishy Din,’ she stated. ‘Can I give you a hug?’ We hugged. There was something in that hug that told me I was not alone in my apprehension, that I was not the only one carrying a burden. Different perhaps, but no less weighty. As writers from the global majority who experience a minority status in the UK, we carry with us the weight of expectation and representation, as well all the other myriad complexities associated with trying to survive as an artist whilst articulating our truths.

As the group came together and we got to know each other, we found that our lived experiences were at once personal and very similar. Everyone had something to share. We supported each other and sought advice. We listened, and we spoke. We laughed and commiserated. We confirmed that we belonged, as artists, as human beings. Outside of work – and everyone was working hard – the conversations were inspiring, informative and at times indiscreet, but isn’t that what colleagues and friends are for?

The morning yoga sessions gave me an energy that had long been missing. The green, green, sabaz surroundings of the Reggio Emilia hills – coupled with the collegiate atmosphere of the group – was a salve to my mental and emotional state. The days seemed longer, giving me the space to contemplate much larger issues than those of the whirlwind that had consumed my life in the weeks and months before. Undone to-do lists were forgotten, the spinning plates of a professional writer’s career were, momentarily, safely packed away, and the constant demands on my time could be briefly rejected. It was restorative.

And yet, the knowledge that this was only a temporary relief was constantly in the back of my mind. The sight of the distant snow-capped peaks were a reminder that there were still mountains to climb. At night, whilst gazing up at the wonder of the heavens, my eye would be caught by a silent aeroplane speeding across the night sky, slyly winking at me. ‘The maelstrom of your life awaits you after a mere four-hour flight, my friend’ would be the gentle poke.

The weeks passed, and the wisteria planted by the owners of the villa could be seen growing up around the supports of the portico. There are many versions of how wisteria ended up in the British Isles, but this author likes the idea that a Chinese merchant gave the plant to a British trader who brought it back to the UK, where it has grown into a symbol of Britishness. And here we were, a group of writers whose heritage is gleaned from across the globe, declaring in our being together that ‘we are British, we belong, we can grow, we can flourish’. And like the wisteria, for us to flourish we need to be cultivated, to be nourished, to be loved. That’s what the owners of the villa had done when transplanting their wisteria to Italy, and that’s what it felt WritersMosaic had done for us.

© Ishy Din

Ishy Din

Ishy Din’s first radio play was John Barnes Saved My Life for BBC Radio 5 Live.