Once we had wrapped on this year’s improvathon, I was grateful to get out of Southend and to explore somewhere else. To touch grass, as the modern parlance goes.
Surprisingly, this little utopia took the form of some farmland outside of Ongar where we had a cabin, an outside bath and a view that was unrivalled.
For five days (ruining the title of this blog but I’m not going to pass up the opportunity to reference a Bloc Party album), I had my phone on Do Not Disturb mode. This meant that for the week, my screentime was halved.
During those five days, I sat on our little veranda, writing, earning an enviable sunburn on my bald head and drinking copious Dr Peppers.
I have a fantasy of going on a writer’s retreat, you know, like a proper one where it is organised and you have all your meals catered and have to journal and earn your stripes. I wonder if this was a better fit for me.
We cooked jacket potatoes on an open fire each night, had long baths watching the sun set and then curling up in bed to watch an ever improving list of films.
It’s no secret that I carry a lot. I burden myself. It’s a lot to be in my skin, in my brain. To relent, to relax, to give in. No agenda. No destination. That’s unusual for me. Fuck, it felt so good.
Paul Schiernecker 
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