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This is Day 2, and this is sentence number one. This means I will have three whole sentences written by Sunday.

Perhaps the above needs some explanation. Inspired by the number of writers throughout the ages who have escaped to remote cottages to finish their great novel, our Writers Group decided to book a cottage together for a week in the hope that we might start ours. So four of us have come to the lovely village of Spiddal on the west coast of the country and I am writing this outdoors, in frighteningly garish shorts and a chilly breeze.

There are a couple of confessions I need to make. Our cottage is not deep in a forest surrounded by pine trees and bears. We are in one of seven in the grounds of a hotel, just two miles from the town, so we will not have to set traps to catch possum in order to eat. And the absolute silence of Thoreau’s retreat in Walden is not quite matched here, where I can hear traffic and where the cottage next door have their radio on.

The four of us know each other simply from the Writers Group. We have always got on very well there, where we write, encourage each others’ work and then chat in the coffee shop afterwards. We have not lived together, where we can have rows over who ate the last Jaffa Cake and who left the toilet seat up. So the cottage may end up as friendly as the house on Walton’s Mountain, with cheery goodnights emerging from every room, or may end up like the last twenty minutes of the Shining.

We plan to swim, to go for walks, to listen to traditional Irish music in small dark pubs. We also plan to write. Honestly.

Yesterday was a settling-in day, but today, as you can see, we’re giving it a go.

(PS. I have just noticed that WordPress suggests “toilet seat” as one of its Recommended Tags. Who am I to argue with the masters).

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