Philippa Hawley 1955-2026

We are deeply shaken by the sudden loss of our dear friend and fellow writer Philippa. She was a ‘founder member’ of Wivenhoe Writers in 2013 and posted regularly on our blog with her entertaining short pieces of travel writing, fiction and poetry. She was an enthusiastic, supportive and productive member of the group, contributing hugely to our lively discussions, the sharing and critiquing of our writing, railing against the unfairness of the publishing industry, congratulating fellow members on their successes and exchanging books and reading recommendations. Our group will not be the same without her. She had so much more to give, and it is terribly sad that she did not have the chance to fulfil her future plans both for her life and her writing. However, she will always be remembered by us with great fondness and appreciation of everything she gave us.

                                                                    Clare Hawkins

Timeline of Lawn House Blues

 Lawn House Blues by Philippa Hawley

With just 2 weeks until the official launch of my new book, Lawn House Blues, I recently emailed a writing friend, Kathy who lives in America, to tell her the news. In my email I commented the book had taken two years to write and she replied, ‘Two years really isn’t bad for getting out a novel. I think James Joyce took ten’.

     I worried that, having promised myself I wouldn’t, perhaps I had rushed it (because looking back I knew I had hurried my last novel). This set me thinking about the timeline of this book’s creation.

November 2014 – first ideas about the novel; working title The Treehouse.

May 2016 – first chapters saved on to my computer after months of thinking, planning and making notes.

July 2016 – early manuscript sent to professional editor through Writers Workshop (much too early as it happened). One certainly learns by one’s mistakes - she was not impressed.

August - December 2016  - manuscript put away in a drawer!

***

December 2016 – The real Lawn House Blues began. I removed it from the drawer, took a deep breath and started a major re-write, with a new beginning and a change of point of view.

     Wivenhoe Writers (wivenhoewriters.blogspot.co.uk) were a great help at this time and have been ever since. We had fun finding a new name and eventually settled on Lawn House Blues.

May 2017 – I attended a symposium on ‘Finding an Agent’ run by Writers Workshop (now called Jericho Writers at jerichowriters.com) after which my sister and my husband graciously took on the roles of copy-editors and beta readers to help me prepare for the next stage ...

  

August 2107 - I submitted the manuscript to numerous literary agents in batches of ten. Each individual required research into their requirements, a personalised letter, a synopsis and a different number of words to be sent. This took months.

     I also entered three novel competitions, run by Lucy Cavendish College, Retreat West, and Good Housekeeping respectively. The competitions brought no success but it seemed a good exercise at the time. Most of the agents did reply after 8-12 weeks, with a kind ‘no thanks’ rejection letter. A couple were quite positive but said it wasn’t for them and wished me luck. One even forwarded the manuscript to a colleague she thought might like it, but still no plan emerged during a long and frustrating winter.

January 2018 – I was summoned to an afternoon of tea, cake and critique by the Wivenhoe Writers. That afternoon they picked the novel apart, allowing me to rebuild it for the third time, over the following weeks.

April 2018 – I approached Spiffing Covers(spiffingcovers.com.) who agreed to help me self-publish. One of their freelance editors, Kimberley Humphreys performed the final edit and the manuscript was finalised, while Stefan Proudfoot created a beautiful and relevant book cover.

July 2018 - All I had to do was produce the back page bumpf and an ISBN while Spiffing Covers sorted the typesetting, ebook conversion and distribution, ready for the official launch date of 21 September 2018. That's a total of 2 years and 8 months.

Touching the sky, written in three forms by Philippa Hawley

Tocca il cielo

 Just beyond Courmayeur and close to the entrance of the Mont Blanc tunnel, Italy meets France. An open, steel arch spreads like the giant’s hand, drawing us to in to explore the Skyway. There are older, longer, higher cable cars in the world but the beauty of this is inspiring. We climb up space-age, steel stairs, clang cross a mesh platform, then step into a globe of strengthened glass, a goldfish bowl for twenty or so people. The conductor arrives, a buzzer sounds and the doors slide shut. Excited, exhilarated, elevated, we start to rise, pulled by silent, heroic cables.

            In our enclosure we quietly smile in anticipation of this so-called ‘eighth wonder of the world’. Stomachs lurch and we gasp as the pod tips over the first of the majestic pylons and sing a communal sigh. This is repeated, accompanied by nervous laughter at each tower, until we reach level 1. We transfer cabins and creep ever upwards towards level 2. The goldfish bowl gently rotates, so slowly it seems it’s our imagination, now showing each and every sky traveller a panoramic view of the mountains.

            Level 2, Punta Helbronner (surely the name of a Bond villain) is the highest point of the cable car at 3.466 metres. Here is the crystal room, where we view the jewels of the mountains, found by ‘cristalliers’, within the Mont Blanc massif.  We step outside – the sun shines and the wind blows hard. The air is thin and cold in early March and we sway a little. Is it the wind or the altitude that stirs us? Feeling mildly nauseous we stand to collect our senses and breathe deep, transfixed by the view. Holding the handrails for stability we mount the final steel spiral to an observation platform on a cantilevered terrace. It’s like a scene from a sci-fi film and we’re a bunch of unpaid extras. Hats and hoods and gloves and sunglasses challenge us all, especially those taking photographs. Smart phone cameras can hardly cope with the silvery glare. Hand held SLRs with filters and long lenses struggle without a tripod. The results can’t help but be dramatic.

            ‘Les Dames Anglaises’, three spikey peaks named in French, watch over us from the left, while ‘Dente del Gigante’, the Italian Giant’s Tooth, stands guard to the right. Centre stage is Monte Bianco, or is it Mont Blanc, wearing a papal cap of cloud and smooth white robes of snow? Over the railings of the platform we peer at the roof of Europe and see the Western Alps spread before us, with eternal blue-white glaciers and dark granite peaks peering 

through the snow as far as the Monte Rosa, the Matterhorn and Gran Paradiso. Below Monte Bianco is the cable down to France, the Vallée Blanche and ‘Mer de Glace’.

            We watch a handful of expert skiers set off from the top towards Chamonix. They sweep through the untouched snow leaving ribbon-like tracks, their skilful, turning elegance belying the effort and courage involved. They must have different and fearless brains to be able to ski this vast and unique off-piste area, where mere mortals have trouble standing still. A group of rugged walkers, equipped with ice axes and ropes, is led off by a mountain guide on their own great adventure – a trail of ants working together as they descend.We look on in awe and smile with tears in our windswept eyes. We get the cable car down, for we have mere mortal brains, but we have touched the sky.

'Tocca il cielo' is a something I recently wrote about Skyway, an amazing cable car in the Alps, for a travel writing competition on the Fred's Diary1981 blog. It can be seen in full, at http://www.fd81.net/freds-blog/tocca-il-cielo-by-philippa-hawley, accompanied by a beautiful picture taken by Clinton Hale. 

After I had completed the 589 word story I decided to see if the same subject worked as a piece of flash fiction in fewer than 100 words:- 

Tocca il cielo (Flash fiction in 98 words)

The glass pod turns within a metal frame.  Excitement mounts as heroic cables haul – elevating us. Stomachs lurch with communal sighs, the cabin tipping over majestic pylons. We reach the peak,meet bright light and harsh wind with a vertiginous sway. We scrabble for hoods and gloves to brave the final, spiral stair to the roof of Europe. Amid distant glaciers and peaks we view Monta Rosa, Matterhorn, and more. Monte Bianco now stands centre stage, wearing a white cap of cloud and snowy papal robes. Tears spring in our windswept eyes, for we have touched the sky.

This led me to turn it into a poem:-

Tocca il cielo  (poem)

Steel arch, mesh stairs

Glass bowl, steel cage

Heroic metal, cables haul

Enclosed, excited –  

Elevate.

Level 1, change cabins

Turn slow, rotate bowl

Panorama

The roof of –

Europe.

Level 2, reach the top

Bright sun, harsh wind,

Thin air, vertiginous sway.

Spiral climb, touch the –

Sky

Spiked ladies, ‘Dames Anglaises’,

‘Dente del Gigante’

‘Monte Bianco’, white cloud cap

‘Monta Rosa’, ‘Matterhorn’, and –

More

Blink tears, windswept eyes

See the sign,

Tocca il cielo

Yes, we touched –

The sky.

So here you have the same story written in three different ways - I wonder which do you prefer?

Philippa.

A Sense of Place 4 - 'Nets' by Philippa Hawley

Travel writing can be a short diversion or part of a long journey. The resulting pieces can be short or extended, resembling either flash fiction or a longer short story. Travelling may give rise to an article or even result in a book.

    For example, Bill Bryson, well known for his ‘Notes from a Small Island’, started off as a newspaper column writer, before writing ‘A Walk in the Woods’. This was about walking the Appalachian Trail with his friend and was, in 2015, made into a film. Another who used travel for inspiration was Chris Stewart, with ‘Driving over Lemons’, descibed as an optimist in Andalucia.

    As a student, one of the first travel writing books I became aware of was Eric Newby’s ‘A Short Walk in the Hindu Kush’. Written in 1958 this adventure, told with British humour, captured many a young person’s imagination over the following decades.

    Sometimes however our aims are less ambitious. It’s great to record our travels, and maybe use a diary to detail the sequence of events. Alongside that, it can be interesting to focus in on one small thing – a meal, a sight, or a character you met. This might ‘show’ the feelings you experienced while away from home, rather than ‘telling’ the reader every step you took. It might also keep your memories alive.

    This is the approach I took in entering a recent travel competition, which asked for a 50-100 word travel highlight. My 94 word piece called ‘Nets’ can be seen here. Re-reading it, I am immediately taken back to the beautiful Monte Isola, on Lake Iseo in Northern Italy. Have a look at the published story:

http://www.fd81.net/freds-blog/nets-by-philippa-hawley

Another 'Sense of Place' story

God! Help me stay alive, among this deadly love, 
by Philippa Hawley

Written following a trip to Berlin, this piece has been submitted for Fred's Blog travel competition, which closes on 31 July 2016. The story includes the idea of flanerie, from the French noun flaneur (usually with a circonflexe accent over the a), meaning 'stroller', 'lounger', 'saunterer', or 'loafer'. Flanerie refers to the act of strolling, with all its accompanying associations.
       The submission has been published on Fred's Blog, and Robert Fear has kindly allowed me to post it on our wivenhoewriters blog. It is another piece of my 'Sense of Place' writing, some of which you may have seen already. I hope you enjoy reading it.
Here is the link to Fred's Blog and Fred's Diary 1981.
fd81.net

A Sense of Place 2 - Iceland for Aliens by Philippa Hawley

At this time of year thoughts often turn to planning holidays. How about giving Iceland a visit? 

Here's a little something I wrote after my trip there in 2013. 

ICELAND FOR ALIENS

We drove through lava fields, vast as Siberian steppes and I waited to be inspired by the sweeping skirts of mountains covered by moss. Lichenous greenery heaped itself over lumps of lava down at ground level whilst higher up it draped shantung-like over an edge, carved like velvet; fabrics folded, pleated and creased by time.

I envisaged tales of trolls hiding behind waterfalls. Rainbows came into view then faded as the sun crept through mists of rain. Pots of gold must be hidden here as ravens flew overhead and whooper swans perched on the volcanic bed. This surely was a place of folk tales and legends – a raven marrying a swan might give birth to a leprechaun, or a troll could cast a spell on a puffin. As it turned out mystical inspiration passed me by.

The stories that captured me were those of my travel companions in this weird and rugged landscape, battling the elements one cold wet September in the remotest of places.

An elderly South African woman, now living in Toronto was travelling alone, still keen to climb rocks, defying her osteoporotic frame. She told naughty stories of

a life well-lived and was not yet ready for bedroom slippers and a quiet life.

An elderly Englishman, a film-maker forced to retire due to hearing loss, travelled with his caring wife who looked after him too well, made him use a stick lest arthritic knees gave way. He’d been places, knew people, loved life.

A stout, middle-aged geography teacher was travelling with a childhood girlfriend. She’d recently met her third husband at a supermarket deli counter doing Saturday morning shopping. The friend was an expert bird watcher, with high-quality binoculars, able to show us puffins, whooper swans, fulmer, skua and wheatear. An excellent companion, she distracted the troubled teacher who was seeking respite from the worries of an aged mother back home but missing her new man.

A group of ten Hong Kong Chinese tourists who lived in Toronto posed at every photo opportunity with dubious camera etiquette, but charmed us still.

A Professor of History from Cape Town, was having some days to herself before sorting out her late aunt’s estate in London. She’d travelled from far in the Southern Hemisphere to the extremes of the north.

We were all mesmerised by the towering icebergs on glacial lagoons – blue, white, black; liquorice allsorts on a cold white sea. We marvelled at the power of volcanoes and the extent of lava fields. We sighed at the beauty of waterfalls and fleeting rainbows that appeared in the haze of spraying water. We were all aliens in an alien land, two degrees south of the Arctic Circle, far out in the North Atlantic at the junction of the North American and Euro-Asian tectonic plates. We walked across the ancient rift valley together and east met west and north met south – now that was inspiring.