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Walberberg 2008:
Rooted Realities and Maps of Migration |
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Walberberg Diary
07:20 I finish praying and turn to watch the sun rise over the lake. The light hits the water, it glitters and then everything else comes into view -the forest, a low white building to the side and a German sign I need not understand.
08:45 I watch with interest a soft-boiled egg being eaten in the European manner. This lady, across the breakfast table has had an upbringing unlike my own, she was taught other skills and now, through writing, we are friends.
11:00 Now that I have finished my session, I can sit back and enjoy the other writers reading. It's luxurious to devote 75 minutes to each writer, yet my mind never wanders, I am always alert. Every writer has their own energy, their own charm and they fill the room in different ways.
13:15 I hear that the year before last, during this lunch break, everyone walked on the lake. Last year the water froze but the ice wasn’t safe to step on. This year, for me, it’s mild and wet, appropriate weather to stay indoors. Thank God for that.
16:10 Tea and cakes. We pour from attractive fat red teapots and there are lots and lots of cakes. The conversation is especially warm this time of day. I am not the only one who has journeyed. The names are tossed lightly like ping-pong balls. Austria, Romania, Jamaica. Swansea and Poland. Cologne, Stuttgart and Ladbroke Grove.
17:50 Mature, intelligent participants cause the standard of the discussion to be raised. Insights and ideas are put forward in appealing, memorable ways. I am learning and this must be one of the best things in the world, a reason for living: to learn something new, to understand something old.
22:40 Which impressions will stay with me and drop into the sway of my dreams? This is one of the best events I have ever taken part in and certainly the most well-organised. Everyone has been receptive, appreciative and encouraging. I must not, though, let it go to my head. Tomorrow I will go back my day-to-day life, to wade again into my new, unnamed novel. Back to the summer of 1951, to chapter seven, to continue where I left off.
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