The room-of-my-own thing
On finding a little space to write at the farm
Pre-parenthood, mid-pandemic, I spent two happy years working from home. It was a much-needed break after ten years in the classroom, with all of the intensity and summer holiday glory which that brings. I taught online, and I edited other people’s writing, and I wrote lots and lots and lots. For the first time in my life, I wrote every day, largely because of the London Writer’s Hour, and I managed to complete two novels (one was rubbish; one I still believe in). I did all of this from the comfort of my very own office.
When my son was born, we converted the office into a nursery, with my desk still tucked in on one side. But, consumed by motherhood, I wrote less, and then I got a full-time job in a school, and the writing petered out (just googled the etymology of this phrase, well worth falling down the rabbit hole for). And then we moved to the farm.
Our farm came with several outbuildings, which we now refer to by the names that were handwritten on the bunch of keys that came with our ownership. There’s the ‘porcherie’, where the pigs used to live, which is now home to bikes and garden tools and many, many metal lanterns. There’s the ‘écurie’, a double garage aka my boyfriend’s fantasy dwelling place (until he built the greenhouse, more on that next week), replete with tools and tiles and a concrete mixer. There’s ‘Mazout’, a little garage with yet more farming equipment, and the ‘dernier local vers caravans’, the less imaginatively named home of the sit-on mower. Then there’s the ‘four à pain’.
Those that are well versed in French will know that this means ‘bread oven’. Believe it or not, there is a room attached to the porcherie which holds a huge bread oven. Not only that, there is also everything you could ever need to make bread, right down to the paper bags for the baguettes, and the metal tool with a long handle for placing baked goodies in and out of the oven. The internet cannot tell me the name of this tool – any ideas?
As soon as I saw the bread oven room which, incidentally, is the only one of the outbuildings with electricity and running water, I began to fantasise about setting up my office in there. I pictured myself heading there in pyjamas early in the morning (clearly I have a lot of early morning fantasies which ignore the fact that I hardly ever sleep, see this post) and writing my novels in the peace of nature, undisturbed and inspired.
Unfortunately, the bread oven room is also home to rodents and bats and, because it has no heating, it is not a very practical office in the winter. One day, when we get round to it, I will clean it out, and warm myself with the heat of freshly baked baguettes in the morning, and write like there is no tomorrow. For now, I have settled for a new little desk from Emmaus plonked under the window in the spare room and it is here that I hope to write 6,000 words a week on my new novel, and make it to 80,000 before another son arrives and turns our world upside down, again, in the best way. This is week one and I’m 5,000 words in. Wish me luck!
PS I promised you coypu/ragondin and wrote about writing instead. Here’s a video of the eight (!) babies living under the tractor. How long will it be before we are overrun?