I opted for a month in Switzerland and then a month in Mallorca to develop (or redevelop) a writing practice. And in spite of a dash to London for a couple of days, and a stint of cat-sitting in an Alpine village where it turns out I am still allergic to cats, it has been successful. Not a huge amount of writing per se but a great deal of thinking and consideration and exploration has happened on my long hikes, which is all part of the creative process.

"This thoughtfulness is leading to some wise decisions. Writing out the past is not actually healing. Writing the future is."

These wise words were given to me from a good friend after I sent her a long rant several days ago. Both of the pieces I have been working on concern my past, even though written in a non-memoir way: A woman in a remote location suffering post-partum depression without knowing it, pushing against a reality that isn't hers, feeling 'othered' by a workaholic partner, and being an utterly unreliable narrator through a series of heart-breaking events.

Where have we seen this before?

I had considered this to be a beneficial exorcising of demons, a clarification even if in reality I didn't go through such drama. But I could have. In my similar situation, I might not have realised there was an element of gas-lighting happening, I could have reacted in irrational ways. Sometimes I did.

I still think the writing is good, the premise sound, but it's killing me. So no more. Now is the time to work on the present and the future, and that will be a book about this untethered year of mine. Also told as fiction - I work best in a world of emotional possibility - but relevant to who I am today, with ideas of how I want to be tomorrow.

The chalet where I currently live is lovely. In fact, the whole village is charming and feels Swiss rather than French, even though I could walk to France from here, it's only a few kilometres. And while they're not the same, they do share the unfortunate habit of standoffishness, needing to know you for at least five years before they will invite you into their homes. However, I hear rumour that there are oodles of intelligent and worldly people from other countries living in the area due to all the governmental agencies and global organisations based in and around Geneva.

But they're over there, and I'm over here. My peripatetic lifestyle doesn't make it easy to connect. And while I admire and enjoy the different accents and abilities of all the international people, I am still reluctant to speak my more-than-adequate French. Why am I so hard on myself?

After a glorious 13 kilometre hike in sunshine on Sunday, the clouds rolled in and we're on day three of a steady downpour. It reflects my mood. So apologies if this post is a bit blah, but this blog was never going to be all ecstatic moments and grand realisations.

Outside the many wood-framed windows, though, I see leaves twitching in the wind, a large Swiss flag in the neighbour's garden, green ferns against a mossy wall. It is picturesque. The boulangerie has good bread. People say 'bonjour' and 'merci' as they get on and off buses, when they pass on the street.

I read all of one book yesterday, and big chunks of three others. That was worthwhile. And I appreciate the time, the stillness and yes, even the rain, that allows me to settle in and do just that. From this evening, though, I head into a bout of movie-watching, with three films planned over the next six days: two in English and one in French. I always find that films inspire me creatively.