¦ dialling in from Sky Bunker ¦
12:27 GMT, Saturday 2nd January 2010. I'm sitting in the dusty, cluttered chamber of the Sky Bunker, with its cracked roof a reminder of the storms that hit the house whilst I've been away. Enigma's first album from 1990 is on the record player, some old vinyl for nostalgia.
I saw the new decade in with Jo and a group of wealthy strangers, holding flutes of champagne in the cinema room of a very eccentric and swanky hotel, in Devon. The big screen was showing footage broadcast from celebrations in London. We counted down to midnight and then everyone congratulated each other. It was excellent.
This experience was a surprise for me arranged by Jo. She didn't want me coming back from Newcastle and going into a nosedive. So the day after I got back, we loaded up my car and drove from Bristol to Devon. The hotel's run by the same family that own and run Glencott House in Wells. It's only been operating for three months, so a few creaky aspects to their operation but overall the experience was fantastic. The hotel is on Exmoor - very Hound of the Baskervilles - and was so close to the sea you could lean out your window and touch it. After midnight I went outside in the sub-zero chill, and stood supping the remains my champagne whilst gazing at a new full moon reflecting off the glassy black water.
New Year's Day. We got up late. I had a very leisurely breakfast with fresh orange and coffee, and worked on notes for the final part of chapter 18... this has been a very difficult piece of writing. Jo surfaced and we went for a walk along miles of pebble beach. Then back to the hotel for a final coffee (on the house), before wending our way back to Bristol in Rocket. The day was glorious. Clear blue sky and golden sunshine, with the chill air biting your face. Driving Rocket along the country roads of Devon was a pleasure unto itself. We stopped at the tiny hamlet of Bossington, walked up to a ruined coastal house that looked like something from The Shipping News; and then went to the medieval town of Dunster; walked to the rook-tower; sausages with garlic potatoes in a quaint English country pub.
Then home.
Hmm, home. Not so quick. My brain is still playing catch-up with all the time I'd had to spend in Newcastle. The house here in Bristol is a slightly alien thing. Lying in the bath I stared at two objects mum bought for me this summer, when I took her to Cornwall before she died. Sadness.
And today. I'm missing Jesmond. The house. The streets. The people.
But I just grit my teeth and accept that this is where I've built my life. I belong here now.
And yet, a little voice in my head says, "Surely there is more than this..."
Something better?
I've seen two excellent movies in the past few days. Avatar, whilst in Newcastle, with Pete and family; and then Holmes, with Jo, last night. A lot of people have slated Avatar for a weak story. I found it thoroughly entertaining. And I was totally immersed in the world they created on-screen. As for Holmes, I could go and see that again this instant. Great characters, fantastic musical score, very Cthulhu by Gaslight.