Creative Non-Fiction

Laura Burden introduces work from the Ignite Creative Writing group. 

For our final session, we explored the idea of “creative nonfiction”, looking at travel writing in particular. After exploring some extracts from travelogues, such as the opening to Patrick Leigh Fermor’s A Time of Gifts, we wrote our own short travel pieces describing a place or a journey somewhere reasonably near Portsmouth/PGS.

Isabel Richardson: The 7:49 Southern Service to Portsmouth and Southsea

This is Southern Service to Portsmouth and Southsea, calling at 7:46, when you arrive at Havant station, waiting for the train. He’s here again today, that same Year Thirteen, standing by the barrier entrance.  AirPods in, lights out. A hollow case of flesh and bone, drowning in black, red and gold, crowned with a mound of errant curls. You turn to wave to him, to smile, nod - any sign of recognition - You go there too! Nothing. You turn to face the platform, reaching into your blazer pocket; you too have succumbed to the will of the music. Clunking and screeching, the train pulls into the station.  A sudden surge of life sparks in your platform peers as the lights on the side of the train pulse their mellow orange glow. The doors creak open. They step forward; you step back, the daily dance routine. 

Emily Nelson: High View Park - Portchester

Frequent spectators of landscapes are likely to have visited the top of Portsdown Hill, perhaps to sip lemonade at the Churchillian or to grab a bag of chips and sit in their cars at the viewpoint. As Winter rolls around, the brief car rides to my weekly piano lessons become darker but more filled with intrigue. I fiddle with Spotify, desperately trying to find the right playlist to accompany my mood in the all-too-short 10 minute journey to get ready for my lesson. Settling on Bach’s Cello Suite No.1 in G major, I slump back into my seat and tilt my head towards the impressive houses slowly ambling past on Portchester Road. Traffic light. Another traffic light. My soul seized in a fist, vision trapped on the tedious walls of green surrounding the car. Swing around the roundabout and turn left up the hill. Weaving in and out of parked cars, I know it’s coming and I start to empathise with the music. A vast panorama appears, extending before my very eyes; the Spinnaker Tower piercing the landscape as the crepuscular hour approaches. In a flash it is gone. I’m darting up the road lined with houses to my lesson. 

I emerge, bleary-eyed, back into the world after being absorbed in music for half an hour. Awkwardly, I climb back into the car and answer Mum’s usual questions. Twilight has set in and a purple hue delicately dances over the mundane cul-de-sac, creating mystery in light and shadows. We drive back down the hill. I peek over my shoulder to catch a glimpse of the sunset. The sky is full of a deep purple gradient, which reaches down into the water and is dutifully reflected. Pink and indigo ribbons cast themselves all over the water. The Tower is now lit up and Portsmouth blinks in succession. High View Park feels secluded; a tiny moment of wonder absolving the monotony from my average week. 

Lian Kan: Havant Shopping Centre

It is raining. But while it is heavy enough to leave dark patches on light coloured clothing, it is not heavy enough to warrant the use of an umbrella. Middle aged women hurry down the street, bustling as they hurry to shelter under the awning, which bleeds water onto the people underneath. The strumming of a guitar, which can be heard on most days through morning to the afternoon, abruptly stops, and despite light being faster than sound, the sound of wings slapping the air is heard before seeing a flock of seagulls taking to the air. Twenty minutes before, the street had a row of marquees and vans, and a gentle, yet constant stream of people weaved between the tents and into the centre. 

But the rain continues to pour, and the murmur of worried parents and inconvenienced wives only grows louder inside the building. The exit towards the bus station hosts a crowd of people with plans to sprint across the street; however, they are outweighed by hopes of the rain dying down. Unluckily for them, the rain continues to grow in strength. And unfortunately for me, I am one of those people. 

Daisy Summerskill - Kings Theatre 

Under the watch of angels, who daintily carve one's walkway with outstretched palms, you will make your way through the velvet crowd to your seat. Each place is encrusted with gold which intwines its grip around the seats edges in a circle. The Kings Theatre, which one would have overlooked over 20th century Portsmouth, now stands impressively and wisley, standing still with its original decadence and beauty. Especially decadent now its neighbours are The Kings Theatre pub and The Kingfisher chip shop whom which were named after their reason for choosing to settle there, knowing the building would bring many people through its arching doors. 

Reflected in its gold decoration you may see the cold stare of a ghostly figure, who hides in the places the bright lights can not touch, looking sadly on as the excitement builds when the lights begin to dim. The dark perfumed with the outside air brought in my large coats and the smell of peanuts wraps around the staff who lean sleepily on the cushioned red banisters with the hum of champagne bubbles in their ears. How proud Frank Matcham must have felt standing at the top of these banisters after a seven year ordeal, finally opening the large doors to the outside world. 

Ms Burden- Arundel Lido:

The lido swimmer is poised between two elements - water and the wide, wide openness of the empty air. An indoor pool can never come close to the immersive experience that swimming outdoors offers. There are no hidden depths or fears of what might lurk beneath - the turquoise tiles are always reassuringly visible, unlike in a river or the sea - yet the swimmer feels liberated. A lack of walls and ceilings breaks down the barriers of the mind.

Arundel Lido is cradled by the River Arun, held gently in a snug meander. Not too far away lies the salty estuary and the bright beach huts of Littlehampton. The lido is not as wild as the river or the sea: it’s a chlorinated rectangle of roped lanes, accompanied by a splash pool. Yet one is exposed to the natural world. There is nothing more blissful than swimming backstroke, guided not by a pipe or a line on a ceiling but by “sighting” oneself by the parapets of the castle and the Gothic spires of the cathedral. 

Just as the first cuckoo and emergent buds suggest the start of spring, so summer is heralded by the opening of the lido in early May. Between then and September, in almost all weathers, people young and old will flock to paddle, play, learn, dive, splash, frolic and gambol. Some repose on sun loungers and others determinedly plough the pool. It’s a delightful place to bring a picnic on the most scorching days, when it gets so busy that a “one in, one out” policy operates in the main pool, yet some of my favourite swims there have taken place in the rain, to an almost empty scene.

Over time, I have built up many memories of swimming there. After the news of the Grenfell Tower fire broke, the images on our screens of the burning building imprinting our retinas, I remember digesting the news as I surged through the cooling calm. My wife and I swam in the lido after what turned out to be the final scan when I was thirty-two weeks pregnant with our twins; I wallowed in the water, thinking of the little lives growing and the future in front of us. More recently, we returned with two boisterous one year olds who crawled happily in the splashpool in their little blue sunsuits.

Arundel Lido is an hour away by train and is an oasis well worth seeking out this summer.