Back in 2006, I visited Alice Munro in Ontario to interview her for the publication of her collection The View from Castle Rock. She had sworn off any future publicity and claimed she didn’t plan on writing much longer – two more collections followed, along with the International Man Booker and the Nobel. She was a mere 74 at that point. The cult of Munro was still something of a members only club then, with writers such as fellow Canadian Margaret Atwood (with whom she was friends for more than 45 years) and the late AS Byatt among her many admirers, along with relative young guns such as Jonathan Franzen and Lorrie Moore.
So, I found myself in Goderich (billed as “Canada’s prettiest town”) in a suitably Munrovian mizzle sometime in the autumn. Munro lived in neighbouring Clinton, with her second husband Gerry Fremlin. We met for lunch in a little restaurant called Bailey’s Fine Dining (white tablecloths and tinkly music). She had a regular table by the bar and a key that she produced from her handbag as the staff were clearing up so we could continue chatting over glasses of white wine diluted with water, while poor Fremlin listened to Swan Lake in his truck outside.
