I stepped off the small boat that still smelled of pine resin and river mud and, in that instant, knew there was no turning back. The air here was differentdamp, heavy with the scent of fir, moss, fish and something else, as if the very atmosphere were pure life, untainted.
Welcome, said the guide, a lanky fellow in a fisherman’s vest. This is the Riverbank Retreat. Pitch your tent wherever you like. The loos over there. If you want work, meet us at eight tomorrow on the shorewere clearing debris from the site.
I nodded. The word work didnt frighten me; silence did. For the first time in months, nobody asked me how I was, whether Id managed, or if Id return to teaching. No one looked at me with pity or worry.
I set my tent on a rise at the waters edge, sat on a fallen log, slipped off my boots and let my feet dangle in the icy river. And for the first time in ages, I didnt cry.
Two weeks passed. I hauled buckets, dug trenches, washed pots. My hands were raw, my back ached from the heavy tools, but inside there was quiet. The people at the retreat were a mix of students, biologists, former IT workers, painters, volunteers from every corner of the countryeach a little eccentric, each a little lost.
One evening Clara, a girl with bright red dreadlocks and a voice that sounded like a choirboy, asked, What did you do before?
I was an art history lecturer at Oxford, I replied.
Why did you leave?
My son drowned a year ago. I couldnt go on. There were no words left.
Clara didnt gasp or wave her hands; she simply nodded. I understand. My dad died of cancer in December. I came here, otherwise Id have gone mad.
Do people go mad here? I asked.
You can lose your mind anywhere. Here its not frightening.
For the first time I smiled.
I began to draw on repurposed kraft paper from old sackssketches of the river, birds, people around the fire, and sometimes my son, now wearing a fisherman’s vest and a paddle, smiling.
One day someone hung my drawings on a rope by the mess hall. At night everyone brought their own contributionsphotos, poems, bark crafts.
Im declaring a Day of SelfExpression, shouted James, the tall, perpetually shaggy coordinator, beaming. Show who you were, who you are, who you want to be!
What about you? I asked him.
I used to be a marketer. Now Im a man with an axe. And I like it.
We both laughed, no longer ashamed of our scars.
In the third month trouble arrivednot from the woods but from the town. My mother and sister came in a motorised dinghy, their bright windbreakers flapping, huge suitcases in tow, faces tight with reproach.
Emily! Have you lost your mind? my mother shouted as she stood by my tent. Where have you been? These people are savages! Look at yourself! By God, is any of this even legal?
My sister, Violet, scanned the scene as if looking for a complaint to file. Weve been so worried! You never answer calls, you ignore messages, you vanished like a teenager. And youre almost forty! Youre a teacher!
I stayed silent. The firecircle fell still. Clara slipped behind me and gently touched my shoulder. Do you want to talk?
No. Ill manage on my own.
My mother went on, Violet continued, We thought you were depressed. Weve spoken to a therapisthe says you need rehabilitation.
This is my rehabilitation, Mum, I said.
Dont be ridiculous. You sleep in a tent, you haul water, you mingle with strangers!
Theyre not strangers. And you you havent really heard me in years.
Emily, Violet interjected, youre not listening to us. 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. Strength isnt help; its an excuse to stay away.
A hush settled, broken only by the rivers soft splash, as if agreeing.
James came over with a cup of tea. My mother sprang up. Whos that? Hes brainwashing you?
Its a person. One of the few who isnt afraid of my pain. Im not brainwashed. Im alive.
Youre mad, Violet whispered. Just mad.
Maybe. But its my choice.
They left the next day without farewells. I sat on the pier, barefoot, a jar of honey in my hands, and Clara sat beside me.
How are you? she asked.
Like a tree thats been uprooted and suddenly sprouts new roots.
Youre brilliant, teacher.
Yes. But now Im living.
By the end of September I was one of the few left at the retreat. Some had gone, others stayed for the winter. James stayed too; he built a winter cabin, stoked a stove and simmered mushroom soup.
One crisp morning we walked to the river together. I was silent, then said, I think Ive fallen in love not with you, but with myself, with this place.
James laughed. Thats the important part. Everything else will sort itself out.
I took his hand. What if I want to stay here?
Then stay.
What if I want to build a workshop? Run an art residency, invite others who have lost themselves?
Ill put up a porch for them, 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 at the retreat was long and still. The forest froze in a white hush, the river shivered under a thin crystal sheet that chimed in the morning sun. Only five of us hunkered down: James, me, Clara, Mark and Grace, a couple of photographers from York who had fled the city.
I lived in a modest cottage beside the workshop, with a stove, homemade shelves and warm light. I rose early, fed the fire, brewed sea buckthorn tea and watched foxes race across the frozen water.
In the workshop I pinned a map of the UK. Tiny flags marked the towns people wrote from. Some sent thanks for the photos and stories I posted on the retreats blog; others asked:
May I stay a couple of weeks? Im a musician, tired of the stage and the world.
Im a painter, fresh from a divorce, need silence and trees. May I?
Im eighteen, lost. Can I just live here for a while?
James looked at the map and said, Well need more huts, or at least a veranda. Spring will bring a rush of people. You feel it, so youll lead.
Spring arrived, not like the southslow, with drips, the crunch of thawing snow and the smell of damp moss. The first guests came in midApril: Rose, a writer from Manchester; Thomas, a former architect who quit his firm after burning out; and Lily, a very young woman with huge eyes and a notebook in which she drew everything she saw.
This place feels like a sigh, Rose said, sitting by the fire. I cant remember the last time I just watched the flames and didnt feel the urge to be someone else.
Here you simply are, I replied.
Day by day the retreat filled with life. Some trekked into the woods for bark to make paint, some composed music, some slept twelve hours a day, chasing lost quiet.
James built a second cabin, then a third. Guests helped, washed dishes, read bedtime stories. It became the norm: living in a shared breath, without masks.
One evening a woman in a sharp coat arrived at the river. Her hair was neatly styled, her eyes tense. She introduced herself as Dr. Alistair, a clinical psychologist sent by a colleague who said the place was interesting.
Its simple here, I said. That scares me.
It scares, but it also heals, she replied, allowing herself a
