IT WAS ONE of the hottest days of the year. On the bus coming into Brighton, I already regretted signing up for a writing retreat in town. Doubtless I would end up in an airless room – they’re always airless in my experience – for six hours, pining for the sea and for fresh, if hot, air.  But I needed peace and quiet as well as the impetus to write solidly, so – maybe – this was the right course to pursue.  Spoiler alert here: Reader, it was. Continue reading The West Hill Writing Retreat →