I once went on a retreat, when I was in my mid-twenties, to a convent somewhere out in the Welsh borders. Considering that this must have been during the late sixties and all the other sorts of retreats that would have been open to me, electing to hang out with a bunch of nuns seems like a terribly conservative choice. But given that most of the alternatives would probably have involved me sitting in a circle with dozens of other people, talking about their feelings and, no doubt, some beardy guru doing his best to try to get into your pants, I can still see why I made the decision I did.
I was never particularly religious, and there was never any danger of me signing up for full nun-dom (not that they would have wanted a young woman as soiled or worldly as me, I’m sure). But I was certainly curious – about a life reduced to such simplicity … mainly solitary, predominantly silent, and almost entirely spent in devotion to something outside of oneself. I can’t be the only person ever to wonder if there isn’t some solace to be had in such a life.
Anyway, I recall turning up and a certain disappointment that instead of being given a cell with a bare floor on which to sleep I was shown into a fair-sized room, with a large desk and a sink in the corner and a single bed, complete with mattress and sheets and everything.
I don’t believe it was an order with a strict vow of silence, but personal contact was so minimal and there was so little to say on the few occasions I did encounter anyone else that I’m sure I mustn’t have uttered more than a handful of words the whole time I was there.
When you’ve finished your breakfast and you’re back in your room by six-thirty there can suddenly seem to be a great many hours in the day. But I would just sit at my desk and slowly pick away at my poems or short stories that I was still convinced would one day make my name.
Once or twice a day I’d go for a walk around the grounds, and stand and stare meaningfully off towards the Black Mountains or sit on a bench and breathe in the scented air. And after lunch I would curl up on my narrow bed and have a little nap for half an hour. I don’t recall ever going into the village, even though it was no more than a couple of miles away. Perhaps I felt that being among such philistines might have threatened to corrupt my newfound purity.
There were various services throughout the day and I remember one of the sisters inviting me to take part in them. I declined. I would have felt such a fraud. But I did go along to the chapel on one or two occasions and sat at the back, just to hear the singing. I remember how much that moved me. As I’m sure it would have moved any mortal who didn’t have a heart of stone.
I’m not entirely sure what the nuns got up to the rest of the day. Mainly praying, I imagine. With perhaps a bit of gardening or cooking thrown in, just to break things up. The other presiding memory of my visit is of someone locking the main door at nine o’clock in the evening, which made me rather anxious. I’ve always been slightly claustrophobic. But I found that by leaning out of my window and following the maze of drainpipes down to the ground I could reassure myself that, if absolutely necessary, I could shimmy down to safety, and this helped calm me down. Then I would lie in my bed, with my hands held stiffly at my sides, to keep them out of trouble. And with every passing day I could feel myself become a little more immaculate.
Each morning at about five-thirty I’d be woken by a light tapping at my door. And one of the sisters would pop her head into the room and I’d hear her whisper, ‘Are you with us, dear?’
It was an odd thing to hear first thing, before you were properly awake. But each time I’d hear myself whispering, ‘Yes,’ back into the darkness. ‘Yes, I am.’
Then the door would close and I’d be left wondering what exactly I’d consented to. And if, by some chance, I really had managed to consign myself to a life of prayer and the occasional bit of gardening, whether that might not be such a bad thing after all.
I mention all the above because only an hour or two ago I noticed how I’d set out the table, with the paper and pens I bought in Holt all neatly arranged, and it occurred to me that one way or another, and what with the cutting of the TV cable, I have recreated that same desk where I wrote my poetry when I went on retreat the best part of forty years ago.