Photoshoot: Dinan, Where Inspiration Found Me

Inspiration. A writer (or more generally, an artist) can scarcely discuss his or her craft without using the word. It’s what brought us to what we do, it’s the reason we continue to do it and it’s what we need behind us to move forward. But what does it mean? How do we define it? In a way it’s like an actor, able to don the costume of everything and anything that we can see, hear, smell touch or taste, and sometimes we know exactly where to look for it whereas sometimes it will surface in the most unexpected guise at the most unexpected time. In fact, it appears to be far better at finding us than we are of finding it. Well, it found me in France last year, in one of the most beautiful cities that I have ever had the pleasure of visiting; Dinan.

A sinuous river, that’s had a thousand lifetimes to carve a colossal valley through an elevated expanse, meandered through the rugged landscape flaunting power that only nature could know. It found me then. The slopes of the valley were carpeted in verdant woodland, the river was flanked by quaint fishing villages that were connected by bridges straight out of a Rembrandt landscape and the waters were alive with boats and ripples of lush green, ash grey and mud brown. It Found me then too.

Flocks of starlings (I am told they were starlings but for all I know they could have been bats, flying penguins or pterodactyls) dominated this part of the sky and soared overhead, careening through the glen as if it were their own airborne highway. Perhaps I should call it a flyway? Anyway, it found me again.

Then, over the river stretched a grand viaduct, so high that it could only have been built by French mountain giants that must have since died out (probably due to over-indulging in baguettes, pastries and pate). It found me yet again. On its back was the road which emerged from the green, levelled over the looming arches and then climbed into a walled city built on the highest hilltop. It was a city that housed a network of cobbled streets, crooked inns and sturdy keeps whislt thrusting ancient towers and church spires into the skyscape. The city was a bubble, seemingly out of a tome on medieval history. It found me again.

Even though tourists were in their plenty, they did not dilute the air of authenticity. There were always scents of fresh fish or burning wood or baking bread, drifting amongst the rabble. It found me more and more, and continued to find me until I eventually left for home.

I wrote a huge amount in the weeks following and didn’t really stop to think, savour or consider exactly what it was that ‘inspired’ me. By its nature, the city lent itself to my genre, but it was more than that. I thought that perhaps it was the inescapable feeling that I was living in a different time, being forced to see the world through a renewed perspective. Maybe it was being immersed in a creative hub, or merely the general feeling of freedom that holidays seem to conjure. Whatever it was, I intend ro revisit this year with pen and paper at the ready and more time to investigate.

What kind of things inspire you? It could be places, people, experiences, memories, sounds, smells etc. More importantly though, why do they inspire you? A place is just a place, after all.