Writing and reading in Suffolk

Reading Ronald Blythe takes me back to the Suffolk of my childhood, as he describes the changing seasons and the practicalities of country life. I can smell the wood-smoke of his bonfire, hear the birds in his trees and remember the pain of brambles scratching my bare legs as I like him, push through a neglected field gateway.

These days, I find his frequent references to the church year, which clearly gave his life structure and meaning, a little disquieting. After years of keeping anything that even hints of religion at arm’s length, I finally settled into Quakerism and find a peace in the silent waiting that paradoxically suits my questioning mind. But even there I find myself feeling uneasy. Is this where I really belong, or is it just a passing phase, from which I will move on to something else.

I doubt if Blythe ever had moments of doubt, about God, his church or his chosen path in life. Is that what makes his writing touch me in the way that it does? As I close A Year at Bottengoms my commitment to write, and not allow others to distract me is strengthened. It is just too easy to slip back to familiar ways, yet so exciting to press ahead and make a serious start on my own next book.