Here is Sandis column from last weeks Evening Express incase you missed it...
"I’m on the west coast of England this week, in creative seclusion in an area of outstanding natural beauty in Cornwall.
I re-pressurised the tyres on my trusty old Focus, still going strong after a quarter of a million miles, juiced her up with fluids and waved adieu to my future hubby in Brighton.
I am on a mission. I was charged with my own task this week and to accomplish it, absolute solitude is required. I’ve shacked up for the week at Sawmills Recording Studios, where I have decided to record my third album in December.
This week I’m taking advantage of the excellent accommodation it offers and its picturesque locale to write some new tunes. Situated on the banks of the River Fowey in its own private creek, it’s one of the most beautiful and secluded residential studios in the world. I hope that in spending some time here in this remote and idyllic setting, listening intently to my thoughts and surrounded by nature’s bounty, that inspiration will come to me.
The studio itself is legendary and has hosted a number of great bands over the years. It’s where Oasis recorded their first album, Definitely Maybe, and The Stone Roses their single, Fools Gold. Muse, The Verve, Stiff Little Fingers – the list goes on – all have found their way to this spot on the Cornish coast.
Armed with a collection of essential instruments and some choice reading material, nothing short of a smash, No 1 classic is expected. That was the plan anyway. The creative juices were going to cascade from my noodle into a melting pot of original thought. Poetry, philosophy and music would then be added and churned into a musical pudding. Best laid schemes and all that, though. In the time I’ve been here I’ve tried on every item of clothing in my bag, the chords escape me and I’ve taken to watching daytime TV. Am I procrastinating? Do I have writer’s block?
The once sweet, melodic birdsong all around has turned into some nightmarish cacophony of hoots, cheeps and tweets. I’m alone in the middle of nowhere, mobile reception is dodgy, petrified to leave my chambers at night in case I become the midnight snack of the local werewolf or prey to a Baskerville hound.
Is this cabin fever? Am I stir crazy? I had visions of sitting serenely atop a wee gully, perched like Buddha looking out to sea, basking in the sun. But the weather since my arrival has been somewhat inclement. Hopefully, the sun will make a triumphant return in the days to come, revitalising my being like it does Superman.
I’ll be gambolling through the fields with my mandolin charming the wildlife in no time. Otherwise, the corridors will be awash with oceans of blood and I’ll be crashing through the doors, axe in hand, screaming “Here’s Sandi!”
