On October 6, H Felix Chau Bradley boarded a plane to spend three weeks at the Tyrone Guthrie Centre in Annaghmakerrig, Ireland for the 2025 Max Margles Writing Residency. Here is their first dispatch.
It’s my twelfth day at the Tyrone Guthrie Centre and the sun is out all afternoon, lighting up the grass, turning it even greener than it was before—which seems almost impossible until I see it with my own eyes. I’ve become used to a pleasantly melancholic palette of greens and greys, with touches of red from the sumac bushes behind the art studios and the tiny, bright berries on the holly bushes and yew trees.
This is the first real sun we’ve had here since I arrived on October 6th. It coincides with my first self-designated Rest Day. Rest Day involves not wrestling with my novel-in-progress; doing a couple of loads of laundry in the process of which I accidentally dye several items pink due to my unfamiliarity with the machines here; reading a book in the sun room, which for once warrants its name; and taking a dip in the cold, cold lake. The dip has become a ritual here, passed on from one resident to another, as many things are.
Upon my arrival, I soon realize that the comings and goings of writers, musicians, painters, dancers, filmmakers, actors, composers, and performance artists provide an ever-shifting yet grounding rhythm to time spent at the Centre. What you learn today from one resident or staff member (how to load the dishwasher, which path to follow to circumnavigate the lake), you must pass on to another person tomorrow. One day, you’re the new arrival; before you know it, you’re the grizzled old-timer.
Two artists I meet at dinner on my first night initiate me into the cold lake dip. The weather is cool and grey; the jetty is completely submerged due to recent storm flooding. Swimming isn’t the first activity that comes to mind. But when I run into the water with them, screaming, it’s the perfect punctuation to my first day. We end up swimming every day together for about a week, until they leave. Other residents join us from time to time. There is another group, the early birds, who do their lake dip daily at 8 am; our group opts for a midday dunk. Once those two friends leave the Centre, I take up the ritual with other people.
Today, my Rest Day, is also the day that I am the only resident on site for the whole afternoon. I have the great fortune of getting to stay here for three weeks, while most artists come for a week—sometimes a little longer, sometimes a little shorter. I say goodbye to a couple of people in the late morning. Then, there I am, wandering the grounds like a ghost, my footsteps echoing crunchily on the gravel walkways. “You’re the only one left,” some of the staff say to me, laughing. Lady Guthrie spent a good deal of time alone here after Sir Guthrie’s death, they tell me. But of course, she wasn’t actually alone, and neither am I; there are always staff members here, keeping the place running and tending to the warm atmosphere, which is palpable from the moment you step through the front door. They cook dinner for us every day, they give us clean towels and show us how to run the dryer, they welcome us when we arrive and bid us farewell when we go. They remember everyone’s names. I begin keeping a running list of the names of everyone I meet here: between the staff and the other residents, my list is currently thirty names long.
Today, as I walk into the lake alone for the first time, I invoke the spirits of the friends I’ve met here—I imagine them encouraging me from afar as I take a deep breath and plunge into the chilly depths. The water is cold enough that it soothes any racing thoughts—there is no room in my mind to worry about the plot of my novel, about grant applications that I’m waiting to hear about, about various personal and political preoccupations. Twelve days in, I’ve softened. I’ve written thousands of words, I’ve shared gripes and advice with fellow writers and artists, I’ve stayed up late drinking wine in the drawing room, sharing increasingly intimate stories with others. It’s like summer camp for adults, in how immersive the experience is, how quickly intimacy can be built, and how quickly it can also recede, with each arrival and departure.
Soon, this evening, a whole new group of people will arrive. How will the energy shift with these new presences? Who will connect with whom? Who will be the late-night crew? Who will be the early risers? Who will come swimming in the lake with me? How will it feel next week, when I am the one leaving? Submerged in the freezing water, cherishing the sun on my face, I let these questions flit harmlessly across the surface of my brain. For as long as I can stand the cold dip, my mind is blissfully unruffled. For now, I am simply right here.