12May
I stepped off the narrow launch that still smelled of pine sap and river mud and instantly knew there was no turning back. The air here was different: damp, heavy with the scent of spruce, moss, fresh trout and something elsea raw, unfiltered breath of life.
Welcome, said the guide, a lanky bloke in a weatherproof vest. This is the Living Waters outpost. Pitch your tent wherever you like. The loos over there. If you want work, report to the shore at eight tomorrow; were clearing the site of rubbish.
I nodded. The word work didnt frighten me; silence did. For the first time in months nobody asked, How are you? or Have you managed? or Will you go back to teaching? No one looked at me with pity or worry.
I set my canvas tent on a gentle rise right at the waters edge, sat on a fallen log, slipped off my boots and dunked my feet in the icy river. And for the first time in a long while I didnt cry.
Two weeks passed. I hauled buckets, dug trenches, washed pots. My hands were raw, my back ached from the heavy tools, yet my mind was quiet. The people at the base were a mixed lot: students, ecologists, exIT folk, painters, volunteers from all corners of Britain. All a little eccentric. All a little lost.
One night, Felicity, a girl with bright copper braids and a voice like a reed, asked me, I wrote later, What did you do before?
I was a lecturerart historyat Oxford, I replied.
Why did you leave? she pressed.
My son drowned a year ago. After that the words just slipped away from me.
Felicity didnt gasp or wave her arms. She simply nodded. I get it. My dad had cancer; he died in December. I fled here or I would have gone mad.
Do people go mad here? I asked.
You can go mad anywhere. Here its quieter.
For the first time I smiled.
I started sketching on rough kraft paper salvaged from old sacksriver scenes, birds, folks round a fire, sometimes my son, now in a fishers vest with a paddle, grinning.
One day someone strung my drawings on a rope by the mess hall. That evening everyone brought something of their ownphotos, poems, bark crafts.
Lets have a selfexpression day! shouted Andrew, the tall, shaggyhaired coordinator, his voice bright. Show who you were, who you are, who you want to be!
What about you? I asked.
I was a marketer. Now Im a man with an axe. I like it, he said with a grin. We both laughed and stopped hiding our scars.
In the third month trouble arrivednot from the woods but from the city. My mother and sister rowed up in a small boat, their bright windbreakers flapping, massive suitcases in tow, faces set in accusation.
Thomas! Have you lost your mind? my mother shouted as she stood by my tent. Where on earth are you? These people are savages! Look at you! Good heavens, is this even legal?
My sister, Beatrice, surveyed the scene as if looking for a complaint box. Weve been so worried! You dont answer calls, you ignore messages, you vanished like a teenager. And youre almost forty now! Youre a lecturer!
I stayed silent. The campfire crowd fell still. Felicity slipped behind me and touched my shoulder gently. Do you want to talk?
No, I whispered. Ill manage.
My mum continued, We thought you were depressed. Weve spoken to a therapist; he says you need rehab.
This is my rehab, mother, I replied.
Dont be foolish. Youre sleeping in a tent! Carrying water! Walking with strangers!
Theyre not strangers. And you you havent really heard me for years.
Thomas, Beatrice interjected, you never hear us. Were your family!
Where were you when I lay under a blanket for weeks? When I couldnt get up? When every day I thought Id be better off dead than let him die?
We tried to help! they protested.
No. You called, saying Pull yourself together, youre strong. Strength isnt help. Its an excuse to stay away.
A hush fell, broken only by the rivers soft splash, as if agreeing.
Andrew came over with a mug of tea. My mother leapt up. Whos that? Hes brainwashing you?
Hes just a man who isnt scared of my pain. Im not brainwashed. Im alive.
Youre mad, Beatrice whispered. Just mad.
Maybe. But its my choice.
They left the next day without goodbyes. I sat on the pier, barefooted, a jar of honey in my hand. Felicity sat beside me.
How do you feel? she asked.
Like a tree thats been uprooted, yet suddenly sprouts new roots.
Youre brilliant, lecturer, she said.
Yes. But now Im also a survivor.
By late September I was one of the few left at the outpost. Some had gone, others stayed for winter. Andrew stayed too; he built a winter cabin, kept the stove alight and brewed mushroom soup.
One crisp morning we walked to the river together. I was quiet, then said, I think Ive fallen in love. Not with you with myself, with this place.
Andrew laughed. Thats the important part. The rest will sort itself out.
I took his hand. What if I want to stay?
Then stay.
What if I want to build a workshop? Run an art residency, invite others whove lost themselves?
Then Ill put up a porch so they know theyre welcome.
I learned that the river remembers, the woods heal, and a broken heart can learn to sing again if you listen.
The first winter was long and still. The forest froze in a white hush, the river thinly iced over, the surface tinkling under the pale sun. Only five of us hunkered down for the season: Andrew, Felicity, myself, and two photographers from Yorkshire, Sam and Laura, whod fled city life.
I lived in a modest leanto beside the workshop, with a woodburner, homemade shelves and a warm glow. I rose early, fed the fire, brewed sea buckthorn tea and watched foxes dart across the frozen water.
In the workshop I hung a map of the UK. Small flags marked the towns from which people wrote. Some sent thanks for the photos and stories I posted on the outposts blog. Others asked:
Could I stay a fortnight? Im a musician, tired of the stage.
Im a painter, fresh from a divorce, need silence and trees. May I?
Im eighteen, lost. May I just
