The harder it is to get something you really want, the more rejoicing there is when it happens

The microlite was also pretty much broken up but Henry laboriously sorted it. I was fearful about him going up again but eventually he sold it. I think partly because he knew it worried me so much. He still maintains they are not really dangerous. And some bright mornings when we are out together walking round the fields he will say: “The air is like silk today,” and I know just what he is thinking.

Over the years, the chapel at Inchmichael, from time to time, was a great place to escape to. An actress, I can’t remember her name, who had a big family, was once asked how she managed to cope.

“I have a big house and I hide a lot,” was her answer. I lived in much the same way. If I wanted to get a bit of writing done, I had one or two bolt holes. One was the chapel. It was always so peaceful. Another was the attic with its sloping roof. I made it into a makeshift office. It had a skylight and a small window on the gable end of the house looking towards the hills.

From time to time, apples were stored here so it had the faint smell of apples and the distant sounds of life going on downstairs.

My favourite place for writing, however, was the kitchen, either early in the morning, at five or six before anyone was up, or in the middle of the night when I would wake up with an idea and need to get it down before I forgot.

Open house

It was always warm in the kitchen with the Aga on nine months of the year. The attic and chapel were good in the summer. In the attic I loved to hear the rain on the roof or, when there was a high wind, pretend I was in a ship at sea, miles from anywhere.

However, I did feel that the chapel was such a special place. I would like to use it more. There were no laws against you using it privately and so began my Annual Writers Party early in May.

It began quite modestly with just the Perthshire group members attending and then I thought, why not mix everyone together and so the members of the groups I attended in Dundee were invited too. In fact, it became a sort of open house for any writer who wanted to come.

The numbers at the party grew. It was a lovely time of year to come out into the country with everything so green. Any guest who wanted brought a short piece to read out, a poem, short story or article. We provided stovies and wine. It wasn’t too expensive. I had huge pots in which to make the stovies and Cairn O’ Mohr bought from the winery at family prices. Everyone said how much they enjoyed these nights.

Over these years I had two more collections of poetry published – one by Brenda Shaw with her Blind Serpent Press and the other with Duncan Glen. Then at last the book about our adventures in Canada got published. Glory, glory, glory.

The harder it is to get something you really want, the more rejoicing there is when it happens. I could hardly believe it. I’d left my new version of the book incomplete for a long time.

Then one day Jean Ramsay, a writing friend, asked how my revised version of the Canada book was progressing.

“Not very well,” I said, “There always seems to be so many other things to do.”

“It’s not that at all,” she said, “it’s too much gallivanting that’s the trouble.” That was certainly part of it.

Since Henry and I got married we were travelling quite a bit. I told Henry what Jean said. “I’ll tell you what,” he said, “how about taking a winter holiday this year, going away for January, February to Majorca, say. You could finish writing your book there away from all disturbances.”

Good deal

We looked around at the various travel agents and came up with a good deal. Eight weeks at an unknown hotel in Santa Ponza for £200 each, flight and all. We booked.

Henry, as always, was trying to help me in every way he could. He had hit it off this time. We landed at the Holiday Centre, not a very prepossessing name, I thought, but it turned out to be a perfect place to write a book.

Later I called it the rabbit warren. It had little balconies all over the place and no one looked directly into another. In the winter months it was mostly pensioners who inhabited the apartments.

They sat out on their sunny balconies, or lower down at their front doors, all day long just enjoying the sun. I was on my sunny balcony in the morning, busily writing.

In the afternoons, Henry and I went walking along the many wonderful country roads with the almond blossom in full flower, the orange and lemon groves bright with ripe fruit hanging from the trees.

When I got back home to Scotland I put what I had written up on the Amstrad, printed a typescript and sent it out hopefully again.

I sent the full manuscript this time to two publishers. Back they both came, had they even looked at them?

The letters of rejection seemed even more impersonal with “nothing autobiographical unless you are very, very famous.” Two “verys” I noticed now. I was really disheartened this time and did nothing more for a while.

Then one day an unexpected circumstance took over. By this time I was a member of PEN (Poets, Essayists and Novelists). They had produced a book, A Scottish Feast, an anthology of works around the subjects of food and eating. I had a poem included.

Invitations were sent to the book launches in both Edinburgh and Glasgow. I decided to go to the Edinburgh one. Henry came with me. Argyll publishing had produced the book and its editor, Derek Rodger, was there. Henry had a conversation with him and liked him.

At the meeting, too, I met Simon Berry the acting president of PEN. He asked if, as a favour, we would come through to the Glasgow meeting and bring with us the case of Cairn O’ Mohr wine he had ordered from Ronnie for the occasion.

Publication

A bit unwillingly I agreed, as we would be busy on the farm at that time. After the Edinburgh meeting when Henry was telling me about his conversation with Derek Rodger I said: “I should have told him about my book, asked him if he would consider publication.” “You should,” said Henry.

We took the wine to Glasgow. Derek was there again. “Do you think I should ask him?” I said to Henry. “Yes go on. He can only say no.”

I got a chance to speak to him, plucked up courage. I told him about the book. Much to my astonishment he said he might be interested. “Send me the MS. I’ll read it, let you know.”

I heard nothing for three months. I had completely given up hope when a letter arrived. “A belated thank you for sending me the above on July 4. This looks like an amazing story of youth and energy, hope and love. You must have been in love just to survive it! I am sorry it has taken three months to get to it. It is very well written but at 100,000 words I can see that it might benefit from being condensed in places. It could be a commercial proposition.”

Later, over the phone, he told me he intended bringing it out in hardback. I could hardly believe it!

More tomorrow.