Turn on, tune in, drop off

It was an offer he couldn't refuse: cast off the shackles of the material world and follow in the footsteps of Robert Louis Stevenson to the bohemian paradise of Grez in France. However, Chris Dolan found it was not quite that easy

THE first bog-standard day of the Age of Aquarius and while you poor souls have doubtlessly sunk further into the mire of Corporate Culture, a ray of light has come into my life. Not from heaven, admittedly, but pretty damn near. Finland, as a matter of fact. The global market's annual "coup de grace" bites deep into the soul with its Christmas tree teeth, mail-order presents, M&S mince pies, and last minute sales.com. By the time the factory bell rings again for the new millennium, you're that little bit more in ensnared, in hock up to your necks in conformity. Not me. I'm on my way to becoming a proper bohemian.

The ray of light arrived - as it so often does - in the form of a good book, of my artist friend Jonaton's beautiful work, with a note attached directing me to Ch.2 V.18:

"Memorable in 1999 was an all night Easter party with a Scottish troubador guitarist followed by an April midnight walk guided by the stars from Nemours to Grez, the Scotsman saying he could hear the fish swim in the Loing."

That troubador, I am proud to say, is me. Guitarist is a bit of an exaggeration - but troubador ! If Jonaton were beside me now, I'd kiss him (which I reckon is a seriously bohemian thing to do). The line about hearing fish swim in the river is probably down to the Ricard and Calvados, but it's not bad. Kind of haiku and mystical.

This all happened when Jonaton and I were holed up with a band of Swedish artists in the far reaches of the Fontainbleau Forest.

Every year the Robert Louis Stevenson Award gifts a Scottish writer with time instead of money, and a quiet place to write, amongst other artists.

I've always fancied the artistic communal life. I grew up on Stevenson the hippy, then on Kerouac and the Beats, Ken Kesey and his Merry Pranksters. I envy the Bloomsberries and the creative types that hung around Paris in the 20s and 30s. But there never seemed much opportunity of recreating that world in Partick. I've worked pretty diligently at loitering in cafes and bars in the Byres Road and talking endless nonsense, but it doesn't seem quite the same. Staying in Grez was my one chance of opting out the rat race, shaking off the shackles of modern life and getting hip.

Stevenson met his wife Fanny Osbourne in Grez and wrote some of his earliest work there, but most of the time he just lived the life of a boheme. At various times Delius, Karl and Karen Larssen, August Strindberg, a clutch of the Glasgow Boys, and a never-ending stream of arty ne'er-do-wells did the same thing. Nearby, other communes were headed up by Millet and Sisley, Mallarme, Jean Renoir. Their daily routine was much the same - work obsessively from 11 to 10 past, then out on a punt to eat a few leftovers. End the day disreputably, drinking to excess in one of the local inns.

Me and Jonaton and Tord and Birgitta and the rest had a brave old stab at following in our forbears' footsteps - quite literally. Gaspard's across the road from our studios was there in their day too. The place is positive proof, darling, that for a fraction of the price you'd pay in Britain, you can still find a petite auberge where you can eat absolutely abominably. Like all French restaurants it houses several rabid dogs and a litter of moulting cats who appear to live in the oven. You can sit and watch the e-coli walking off with your haricots blancs aux saucisses braisees under your very nose. All pretty authentic bohemian stuff, don't you think? Gaspard's also boasts an original pre-impressionist juke box, complete with scratchy Sartrean torch songs by Greco and Piaf, and a pinball machine whose left flipper has been bust since Stevenson's day.

Every night we'd meet there - after a long day's creating - us Euro-artists, and drink heroically. But we knew we were role- playing, not real beatniks at all. We rubbed shoulders with the local rustics, but only shoulders. Strindberg, legend has it, deflowered half the maiden population of the Gatinais. That didn't seem to be on the agenda for us much-married middling-aged artistes.

The Swedes in particular were hell-bent on playing at communal liber- tarians - coming from a country where if a thing's not compulsory it's forbidden. But Gothenburg Tommy's mobile had a habit of going off just when we were getting suitably mystical. Not having a rich patron somewhere to pay us to suffer for our work, we all ran out of money before the witching hour. We worried about exceeding our 21 units (a night), fretted we'd overdone it on Gaspard's cholesterol specials, rushed to get across the road before spouses and kids' phone calls. All of which tended to break the illusion of being free- thinking drop-outs. The modern-day versions of Stevenson and his chums are, I suppose, scandalous trip-hopping city slickers who have no truck with rural France.

Is it still possible to be a boheme at all in the 21st century? Being unconventional is no longer, well, unconventional. You can buy into it. The marketplace has found a niche for everyone - acting arty just another lifestyle choice. As for intoxicating substances, half the world does that, one way or another. Hanging out in bars shooting the breeze about films and jazz is a national pastime. The best of Brel and Gainsbourg are available cut-price in most High Street stores, universal culture getting cheaper by the day. Everyone's read The Dharma Bums. As for the nomadic spirit of the poet, I remember wresting my partner away from an accountant inamorato, donkeys ago, telling her she'd live the romantic rover's life with me. In fact it's the bookeeper who now traipses his family from Rio to Bangkok, while I toil at my desk nine to five doing word counts.

That just leaves free love. Which I'm all for, in theory. It's the practice that eludes me. Anyway it all seems to be happening in Edinburgh. Keelie writers are the naturalists, the new Beats the naturists. Or maybe I'm just not cut out for the libertine life. I returned to Grez a few weeks ago and met another Swedish artist who had heard all about our legendary Easter party. 'So you are Chrees ! You are the man who stopped the sex-party !' News to me. I thought I was doing well being a troubador and hearing the fish swim. Clearly I've got a lot to learn about the bohemian life.

Chris Dolan's novel Ascension Day is published by Hodder Headline Review priced #9.99 Marianne Faithfull Existentialist chantoosie in the mould of Greco and Dietrich. Qualifies for the Bohemia Club on account of her not dying, despite immeasurable narcotics and lovers.

Eric Cantona Someone who turns his back on a lucrative career to become an Artist must be a contender. But the thespian career move is planned to make him even more money.

George Wylie Avant garde artist, poet, wit and genuine intellectual, Scotland should be thankful to Wylie for proving that we can still produce an inventive radical, big-hearted bohemian.

Bjrk Nice and nutty, truly musical and innovative, Bjrk's also an unconventional mum who picks up and discards groovy boyfriends, and punches reporters.

Vaclav Havel A proper Bohemian with a capital B - and ended up being its President (along with the Czech Republic). Chain-smoking, innovative absurdist playwright and philosopher.

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