I stepped off the narrow boat that smelled of pine resin and river mud, and the moment my boots touched the bank I knew I wouldnt be going back. The air here was different damp, heavy with the scent of fir, moss, fresh fish and something else, as if the very breath of the countryside was pure and untainted.
Welcome, said the guide, a young bloke in a weatherproof fishing vest. This is the Living Waters site. Pitch your tent wherever you like. The loos over there. If you fancy a bit of work, meet us on the shore at eight tomorrow were clearing the area of rubbish.
I nodded. The word work didnt frighten me; it was the silence that did. For the first time in months nobody asked how I was, whether Id managed, or if I was planning to go back to teaching. No one looked at me with pity or worry.
I set my tent on a small rise right at the waters edge, sat on a log, slipped off my boots and let my feet dangle in the icy stream. 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 gear, but my mind was quiet. The people at the base were a mixed lot university students, wildlife biologists, former IT folk, painters, volunteers from every corner of England. All a little eccentric, all a little lost.
One evening Rosamund, a girl with bright red dreads and a voice that could cut glass, asked, What did you do before?
History of art lecturer, I replied. University in Oxford.
And why did you leave?
My son drowned a year ago. I lost the words to speak.
Rosamund didnt gasp or wave her arms. She simply nodded. I get it. My dad had cancer, died last December. I fled here or Id have gone mad.
People dont go mad here?
You can lose it, but its not scary. Itsdifferent.
For the first time I smiled.
I began to draw on rough kraft paper made from old sacks quick sketches of the river, the birds, the people around the fire, sometimes my son, now in a fishers vest with a paddle, smiling.
One day someone strung my pictures on a rope in the mess hall. That night everyone brought something of their own photos, verses, bark crafts.
Lets have a selfexpression day! shouted Simon Clarke, the tall, shaggyhaired coordinator, with a grin. 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. And I like it.
We both laughed, and the scars we carried stopped feeling like shame.
In the third month trouble arrived not from the woods but from the city. On a small motorboat my mother and sister pulled up, their bright windbreakers flapping, huge suitcases in hand, faces tight with accusation.
Ellen! Have you lost your mind? my mother shouted as she stood by my tent. Where have you been? These people are savages! Look at you! Good heavens, is this even legal?
My sister, Lucy, scanned the site as if hunting for a complaint.
We were so worried about you! You never answer calls or texts, you vanished like a teenager. And youre almost forty! Youre a lecturer!
I stayed silent. The fireside crowd fell still. Rosamund slipped behind me, placed a gentle hand on my shoulder.
Do you need anything?
No. Ive got it.
My mother continued, We thought you were in a depression. Weve spoken to a therapist he says you need rehab.
This is my rehab, mum.
Dont be foolish. You sleep in a tent! You haul water! You walk with strangers!
Theyre not strangers. And youyou havent really heard me in years.
Lucy interjected, Youre not hearing us, Ellen. Were your family!
Where were you when I lay under blankets for weeks? When I couldnt get up? When every day I thought Id be better off dead than living without him?
We tried to help! they protested.
No. You called, you said Pull yourself together, youre strong. Strong isnt help. Its an excuse to stay away.
Silence settled, broken only by the rivers splash, as if it agreed.
Simon came over with a mug of tea. My mother snapped, Whos that? Hes brainwashing you?
Its just a man, one of the few who isnt scared of my pain. Im not brainwashed. Im alive.
Youre mad, Lucy whispered. Just mad.
Maybe. Its my choice.
They left the next day without farewells. I sat on the dock, barefooted, a jar of honey in my hand. Rosamund sat beside me.
How are you holding up? she asked.
Like a tree thats been uprooted and suddenly sprouts new roots.
Youre brilliant, lecturer.
Yeah, but now Im justliving.
By the end of September I was one of the few left at the base. Some had gone, a few stayed for winter. Simon stayed too. He built a winter cabin, kept the stove going and simmered mushroom soup.
One crisp morning we walked to the river together. I said, I think Ive fallen in love. Not with you, but with myself, with this place.
Simon 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?
Ill put up a porch so they know theyre welcome.
I knew the river remembered. The woods healed. Even a broken heart could learn to sing again if you listened.
The first winter was long and still. The forest froze solid, the river thinly glazed with crystal ice that chimed under the pale sun. Only five of us hunkered down: Simon, Rosamund, me, and a couple of photographers, Tom and Laura, whod come from Manchester to escape the city.
I lived in a modest cottage beside a workshop, with a stove, homemade shelves and a warm glow. I rose early, fed the fire, brewed seabuckthorn tea and watched foxes dart across the frozen water.
On the wall of the workshop I pinned a map of Britain. Little flags marked the towns from which people wrote. Some sent thanks for the photos and stories I posted on the site; others asked:
Can I stay a couple of weeks? Im a musician, tired of the stage.
Im a painter, just out of a divorce, need quiet and trees. May I?
Im 18, lost my way. Can I just live here for a bit?
Simon looked at the map and said, Well need more huts, maybe a veranda. Spring will bring a crowd. You feel it, dont you? Its your job
