In The Deep End at Dale Fort, July 2014

I was sick and missed the first day in Cardiff. We travelled on the second day and I slept for most of the journey, unwell, disconnected. I woke as the minibus was negotiating its way along an impossibly narrow lane to the secret location, which I'd overheard people guessing. Correctly as it turned out: Dale Fort, in Pembrokeshire.

There has been a human presence on Dale Fort Point since the Bronze Age. But the current building, constructed 1853 - 1856, dates from a period of panic over a perceived threat of invasion from the French. Since 1947 the fortress has been used as a residential field centre and when we arrived the walls were still covered with drawings of limpets and plankton from the school group who had just left.  Irish ferries pass by daily to and from the natural harbour of Milford Haven which was formed by the drowning of a deep river valley, and at night the oil refineries sparkle from across the water like strange cities.

Phil Smith divided us into small groups and gave us each a word. My group was Sherrall, Sojung and Verena and our word was 'Aeolian.' Moved by the wind. I had no ideas. We went to the Point and Verena covered her body in leaves and Sherrall held sawdust in her hands and watched it fly, and Sojung and I stood on the sea wall and I felt the wind move through my hair and through me.  

We had a parade, flags and chanting, up the lane to the old burial ground on the cliff path. I laughed. I had no ideas. I wondered how I'd get through the fortnight, me, a writer who sits alone in a room every day with imaginary characters. Now I was with real, wonderful, larger than life characters, all of them sparkling with creativity. Of course when you lie alone at night thinking that everyone else feels as wonderful as you think they are, you never imagine that they could feel the same way as you. In a way you don't want to imagine that. There's a strange comfort in being the only lost one.

We walked down the lane into the bright holiday village of Dale. Tangled fishing nets and boats and sunshades and fractious children eating ice-cream.  Kayak sails pointed at the sky.

The sound of a woman vacuuming in a darkened room.

Phil gave us all a secret identity and told us to explore the village. I was a fox. I smelled fish and saw sandalled feet toeing gravel under tables. I saw a bin overflowing with cans, heard the growl of diesel, saw the dangerous flash of wheels, silver in the sun. A man's feet stepped out of a silent shadow and I ran until the road was empty, the road was mine, until a black car claimed it back. There were cooking smells from the holiday houses and spiteful dogs shouting my presence to one another across the village. I found the shadows, and I followed the shadows to a dark place.

I had no ideas.  

John McGrath arrived and when I spoke to him he suggested I give my stories out to people, to see what they might do with them, what collaborations might occur. So I printed and handed some out. Then Simon discovered that Katie, who worked at the fort, owned two horses and I was welcome to go and meet them. The theatre piece I have been thinking about is a site specific work in a stables using live horses: I am fascinated by a horse's ability to connect emotionally with humans, by the growing use of horses in psychotherapy. So Ailsa, Catriona, Farah, Rebecca and I went on a road trip out of the fort to the farm where Katie kept her horses, Edna and Woody. Woody, a golden palomino with a white mane and tail was a rescue horse, his face and legs bearing the scars of old beatings. I asked Catriona just to be with him, to do what felt natural, and Farah filmed her touching him, wrapping her arms around his warmth, letting him take her weight.

I still had no ideas but I felt better for having done something. All around me people were doing things and showing their work: installations, films, performances. It was wonderful. They were wonderful. There was a fete in the village and a lot of plans which the other summer campers announced after breakfast, but I said, 'I have no plans because I'm not a performer.' And then I felt ashamed. So I took a page from one of my stories, a true story about my best friend and I sneaking out of school and riding a horse in the rain. I wrote it down carefully and folded it for the lucky dip. I love that story and maybe someone else might too. At the fete I helped Anna who was asking people to rearrange the stones of the beach into their different colours. Farah sat on a chair in the sea with an empty chair beside her to invite people to sit beside her and take a moment, which I did. Then, excitement: a group of summer campers entered the raft race and the rest of us cheered them on from the shore and I took photographs. In the evening as the light grew soft we had dinner in the Griffin Inn and arrived back at the fort late, happily drunk. It had been a lovely day.

In the morning I remembered a conversation I'd had with Hazel about body image and I wrote a story based on it which I gave to her. I called it 'The Most Beautiful Girl In The World.' Then Anna asked me to write something for her. She was interested in the legend of St Bride, a woman who had gauged her own eyes out. That story took me a few days and when I'd written it I was a little shocked at the darkness of it, but also excited because I hadn't written like this for years, just seeing what emerged. My writing life has been dictated by lists and deadlines. A few nights later there was a screening of short films in the library and the film Hazel made with my text, 'The Most Beautiful Girl In The World' was screened. I hadn't expected it. I loved it. Then Josh shot a wonderfully strange and evocative film using pieces of text from my short story 'Snowstorm' that I had given him and I felt I was part of the creativity of Summercamp, at last.  

Every afternoon there were feedback sessions. They were structured in such a way that you couldn't be prescriptive, putting yourself at the centre, telling the artist 'you should do this or that' in a way that these sessions can sometimes go. The sessions encouraged you to think about the work, not just 'I like or don't like,' but to really examine it carefully. Feedback can be hard for contributors as well as artists: what if I say something stupid? What if my view is invalid? There was no such thing as an invalid comment in these sessions. One of the sections invited you to say what the work reminded you of, which could be anything - a film, an image, a childhood memory. We were able to explore how we felt about the work through talking about it. Unfortunately I missed my own feedback, when 'The Most Beautiful Girl In The World' was discussed, although Simon told me what was said afterwards. But I loved these sessions and they were valuable for everyone, both artist and 'audience.'

I attached a go-pro to my head and went with Sam and Tom to groom a horse, this one a black Welsh cob named Queenie. I spent an hour combing knots out of her mane and tail, oiling her hooves, brushing her until the sun reflected in her coat. Two weeks later I still haven't felt able to watch the footage - I'm still processing the Summercamp experience. But I have written a lot of notes about what my site-specific piece might be.

At first I had felt lost, disconnected, floundering in deep water. During the two weeks I walked, talked, swam, ran, cried, laughed, wrote, and slowly felt myself coming to life like a polaroid photograph. On the day we left I wanted to cry, that I was leaving this place where the birds were so unafraid they darted between your legs, where there was a hushed silver sea outside my bedroom window and a seagull guarding her chick, dreaming on a wall.  But most of all I wanted to cry because I was leaving this place where the creative was the everyday, and where I had felt like myself.

But it's not over. We're all connected now. So many of you I haven't mentioned but I was touched in some way by you all. The conversations have continued. A Mountain Brainstorming walk has been planned - four of us will be walking up Pen-y-Fan on the 1st of September to talk about ideas. This is very Summercampish, yes!?

I really feel that these two weeks in Summercamp were just the start of something wonderful.

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Comment by Catriona James on August 29, 2014 at 6:53

thanks for this Catrin. x

Comment by Ailsa Richardson on August 22, 2014 at 4:12

thanks Catrin - love the idea of walking up Pen y Fan brainstorming ! xx

Comment by Christina Handke on August 21, 2014 at 2:44

I wrote this one earlier this month, right after summer camp, in the middle of my summer-camp-is-over-blues, muha: 

http://community.nationaltheatrewales.org/profiles/blogs/back-from-... 

Did you see that one or are you suggesting I should write another one? 
xx

Comment by Simon Coates on August 21, 2014 at 2:39

Christina - when do we get to see your blog post, eh?

sxx

Comment by Christina Handke on August 21, 2014 at 2:36

I just wanted to comment on this and then Simon's comment popped up and he's basically saying what I wanted to say, just in better, so I'm gonna go with "what he said" (I kinda feel like this should be the title of a performance) x

Comment by Simon Coates on August 21, 2014 at 2:27

Catrin - this is such a beautiful account of your (and dare I say, many people's?) Summercamp experience. So good to see this. Thanks for sharing!

And enjoy your brainstorming on Pen-y-Fan. Very Summercampish!

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