Country chronicles: a gardening holiday

I have just returned from a visit to the office at Totleigh Barton: the solitary neighbours I shall be troubled with. This is certainly a beautiful country! In all England, I do not believe that I could have fixed on a situation so completely removed from the stir of society, other than my fellow tutor, 10 eager students and the man who delivers the alcohol-free beer.

Down here in the southwest of England, where the moss is yards deep, lies an ancient manor house-turned-Arvon centre where over the past 50 years many great writers have taught or learned, and in rural solitude been energised. Delicious food is provided. I have my own bedroom, in a renovated goose hut, a humble pine writing-desk, nugatory internet access. And, apart from the 16 hours a day of teaching and chat, I can relax: no responsibilities whatsoever. I could definitely tot up (ho ho) 500 words before dinner, maybe even rise with the sun, at one with nature, attuned to every unfurling bud. I’ve always envied writers who can stride o’er hill and dale while thinking through their work in progress. Here, among the leverets and sea trout, my writing will achieve a new resonance.

Day 1: 6.32pm
I have been appointed overnight fire marshal for when the grownups – I mean the office staff – go home. I eye the thatched roof, the manifold woodsheds. I’ve already lost the tabard. This cannot end well.

Day 2: 6.02am
Only 16 hours here and I’ve already heard an owl. I was awake, worrying about my extinguishing duties, when nature swooped in, almost literally, to soothe me. What next? Lost lambs? A weasel? Last time I taught here I saw real, actual deer from my bathroom window. Once, as I read aloud a particularly moving passage from my novel of youthful despair, Daughters of Jerusalem, students began to laugh; salt-seeking cows were licking the barn window with their huge, blueish tongues. Today is quiet: soaked fields, leafless trees. The world seems calm. I don’t believe it for a minute. The country is a dangerous place.

9.35am
I do my Pilates to the metronomic beat of a chirruping house martin, or possibly a housemaid, under the eaves. It abandons me during Cat-Cow. I continue. I need to be limber in case of emergency. Outside my door is an ancient apple tree, fully merkinned with lichen: petalled, whiskery, pendant, like an olde English version of Spanish moss. Tender leaves boing about in the downpour. Over the next few days they, like me, will mature.

2.25pm
A diamond of low sunlight lies on my bedroom floorboards. Do I describe it in my writing notebook? Absolutely not. My students are forbidden ever from describing dust motes swirling in a beam of sunlight. I will practise what I preach.

1.13am
How far do my responsibilities go? Wound-dressing? Emotional crisis? I’ve seen ER and Grey’s Anatomy, so can perform emergency tracheotomies, but the mental health first aid kit is mostly aromatherapy sprays. What if someone dies?

Day 3: 8.14am
More rain. I grow used to the sound on the roof of my hut, barely interrupted by miscellaneous birdsong and my students’ quiet murmuring about my increasingly weird obsession with Villette.

9.43am
I brush my teeth watching a massive, porky pheasant standing in a field. Why are they always referred to as stupid birds? I will come to know its subtle instincts, its avian charms, in its natural habitat. Do pheasants ever attack?

12.58pm
After Characterisation I nip back to check on the livestock. The pheasant still hasn’t moved. Stupid bird.

7.11pm
During dinner, a beautiful toad enters the kitchen. It’s frozen in fear, and the light from inside makes it look cast in bronze. While the rest of us discuss licking it (we’re out of wine), one calm student transports it through sheeting rain to the pond. Until she returns, toadless, I do not rest.

Day 4: 11.43am
In the middle of Plot, a student squeals; she hears a rat in the sofa cushions. I, too, edge away, but apparently it’s only a house-sparrow, nesting in the cob. Or, I suggest, a famous novelist, spying on my secrets. The students smile, kindly.

8.12pm
Our penultimate, reading-free, evening, when misrule traditionally breaks out. Usually everyone goes to the pub, but it’s still pouring. Also, apparently, one Hallowe’en the Locals played a nasty trick on the Writers involving a cow foetus. The drinking continues. I go to bed, but remain alert.

Day 5: 8.28am
The patch of lichen on the fence outside my desk window is glowing orange. Has it spread? Ripened? This is definitely a rare lichenous phenomenon. I must take careful n– Oh my God, it’s sunshine.

2.10pm
The weather has held. There are specks, no, dabs of blue in the sky. We rush outside for our daily post-lunch tutors’ speed-walk up the hill and this time the track is silver between the still, wet fields; there’s even a rainbow. The River Torridge has burst its banks. Brown foamy water chucks itself against what look like, but surely can’t be, tree-tops. My fire training does not extend to sand-bags. Only 18 hours until my cab to the station. I’m not sure my nerves can stand it.