Channeling the Writer's Spirit ...

Last weekend I made the trek out to Fontainebleau - about a forty minute train ride from Paris - to visit the final resting place of my much-adored Katherine Mansfield (I'd like to glorify this little trip with the title "pilgrimage" but I think that's stretching things a little too far).

After walking around apparently aimlessly for about an hour in the tiny town of Avon(I have accustomed myself to the fact that maps and signs for guidance are a rare phenomen here in France, and when they do appear they are generally badly oriented or point down two streets at a time ... yes, it is possible) I finally found her. Her grave is tucked away in a tiny little cemetery on the far edges of the town.

I have to admit that it was a surprisingly emotional experience for me to see this little headstone marked "born in Wellington, died in Avon" tucked in amongst the graves of French families and war victims. Lonely is what I felt. All the way over here, on the other side of the world from New Zealand, and all alone. And, yes, I am talking about me as well as Katherine, because standing there in front of her headstone, I couldn't help but feel a kind of affinity with her experience. I indulged myself in what I like to call an "Amélie Poulain Moment" - you know, those moments where you like to imagine yourself much worse-off and challenged and saintly than you really probably are? They're quite delicious.

Anyway, it was a nice experience and I did feel some sense of achievement in doing it. Here's hoping Katherine saw me and will send me a bit of that writerly inspiration.