When I was a kid we called it an Indian Summer. Nowadays it goes by the alarmist epithet – a heatwave! You see, I vividly remember the Summer drought of 76. Now, that’s what I call a heatwave! You were a pariah back then if you even mentioned the word hosepipe let alone used one. If you were caught using one you were lucky if you didn’t have an angry mob bearing torches and pitchforks on your doorstep.

Everything we’ve had at this time of the year since then has been a typical British Summer, this year being no exception where for the whole of June the Sun shone like the seat of my old school trousers and for July and August it alternated between the odd sunny day here and there and Biblical proportions of rain at all other times.

Now, I like to sit outside and write, preferably to writing inside. I can’t explain it, whether it be the fresh air or the azure skies or the bird song or the trees or whatever. The fact remains that I produce more and better copy when I sit outside. Sadly, for the last two months the opportunities to do so have been few and far between.

Until now!

Last week was quite the most marvellous weeks’ worth of writing I’ve had in a good long time. I tell you I was both stupendous and prolific and made huge great strides with the current work in progress. I wrote witty prose, sparkling dialogue, thoughtful phrases and, above all, lots of it.

The reason being of course that I was sat out on the decking in glorious sunshine but under the shade of the gnarly old ash trees. And I was in my element, gentle reader. My element I tell you.

I’ve never been a sun worshipper, you know, one of those people who sit out in it for hours on end and go as brown as Bovril. That’s never been me. I burn like unwatched toast if I stay out in direct sunlight unprotected for just a few minutes and I’m never seen without a hat on sunny days. But despite that, I still see myself as a definite heliophile.

I need sunshine and blue skies to function properly as a writer and last week was proof positive of that. I seem to remember that Ernest Hemingway was exactly the same; although he usually had a glass of alcohol near to hand as well whereas I have to keep a clear head. Horses for courses and all that.

Sitting out in the open-air last week really helped me to unclog the narrow drain I’d written myself down in recent months. I’d got Joe into an almost impossible situation and I didn’t have a clue how to get him out of it. Then, last week, it all became so obviously apparent and within a day the plot had progressed and I now have a crystal-clear vision of how the book will end, how Joe wins against the odds (again), how the villain of the piece gets their comeuppance and even what the cover should be. All through spending five days typing away whilst sat on garden furniture on plastic decking at a static caravan on a holiday park in the Forest of Bowland.

And I’m sat outside as I write this very blog post. Yes, it’s a little cooler but then we are halfway through September, however, my fingers are still dancing over the laptop keys like Fred Astaire on my right hand and Ginger Rodgers on my left. My mind is focussed, I know what I want to say and how to say it and when I’ve finished writing and uploading it to the Blessham Hall website then I’m going to turn my guns back onto the current WIP and get stuck in again.

My body hurts of course, you all know that by now, but for the first time in what seems like forever my mind is as sharp as a tack. Heck, I almost ran amok with myself when watching Mastermind, Only Connect and University Challenge on Monday evening, getting question after question right. I’ve not been so lucid in ages and I put it down to good old-fashioned fresh air.

As I type this I am also consciously aware that the countryside, where I’m currently based, isn’t necessarily a haven of peace and quiet. I can hear sheep in the fields behind me, birds in the trees overhead, a tractor chugging away in the distance and from time to time a barking dog from somewhere on the park. None of which cause me consternation like the sounds of urbanity.

The tractor doesn’t have the same nerve-jangling effect on me that a passing ambulance siren has. The occasional woof from one of the vans isn’t jarring compared to the almost incessant yapping of the poor little Jack Russell that lives opposite us in the town and has to spend most of his day in the back garden trying to attract his owner’s attention to get back inside again. The soft sighing of the leaves in a gentle breeze is music to my ears compared to the cacophony of the bin lorry and the supermarket delivery vans back at the flat.

Don’t get me wrong, I like where I live. Compared to other places I’ve dwelt Settle is like Shangri-bloody-La! But as nice as Settle is it’s still not the open countryside; close but not quite. And I have limited opportunity to sit outside there without constant interruption. Believe me, I have tried.

So, in summation, I’m doing well on the writing front and it’s all down to a change of scenery pretty much. I hear the weather for the rest of this week isn’t going to be so good so I’d better sign off now and crack on with Mr Wilkie and friends and try to get 4000 words done if possible.

When the weather does turn tomorrow, and it will, I shall sit inside the caravan, by an open window and get as close to nature as I can as I write. The Sun will be back; it always is and when it does return it’ll find me with my ample backside in a garden chair with my laptop in front of me doing what I do best and damn well enjoying it.