Homes of Desire – Part 5

vishs-home.jpg

This week I visited Dr Vish, in the woodland home shared with his partner and experienced home envy once again.

I was envious at the woodland turning to autumn and the deer coming to visit. Envious at the pattern on the canvas sides as I sat on the bed made of pallets and foam and Vish obligingly danced around outside showering the tent with handfuls of leaves and a kaleidoscope of woodland life played across the walls and made me laugh. Envious that that they had found a spot to live this life and I had not.

I was envious of their youth and energy. That they could hack three months in a tent, chop wood, cycle miles to work, survive on a diet of foraged apples and, in Vish’s own words, “crotch washes.”

Mostly I was envious that they were doing it, living a life close to nature in the woods. That he had dreamed it up one weekend on a camping trip in Devon, had a partner who wanted it too, had asked around, taken the risk, made it a reality.

Over green tea and satsumas we dreamed some more, of owning land, of creating a place of peace where others could connect back with the earth. Our own personal dreams feeding off each other.

Vish said my life in the caravan had inspired them, that he and his girlfriend Prag had hope in the fact that someone almost 20 years older than them had not succumbed to expectations but still attempted to live a life true to their values but really the admiration was all mine.

Their youth, their energy, their ideals, their dreams made mine a bit closer to being fulfilled.

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Notes from the Island

12 on the beach at darnet

I forage for driftwood and, after the winter storms, find plenty of old planks and logs washed down with the tides. Getting a fire going proves harder than I had imagined, but after a few false starts with a cheap lighter and some torn pages from my notebook I succeed . I watch the sun going down on Midsummer eve while my little saltwood fire burns down to ash and my jacket potatoes slowly soften in the coals. The tide rises and recedes, the wind picks up. I am sticky from salt spray and sweat and my eyes sting with smoke but I am proud of my fire, feeling like a survivalist chick.