I stepped off the little dinghy that smelled of pine resin and river mud, and the moment my boots touched the bank I knew there was no turning back. The air here was different damp, heavy with the scent of spruce, moss, fresh fish and something else, as if it were pure life itself, untainted.
Welcome, said the guide, a lanky young man in a fisherman’s waistcoat. This is the River Haven camp. Pitch your tent wherever you like. The loos over there. If you want work, report to the shore at eight tomorrow; were clearing litter from the site.
I nodded. The word work didnt scare me; it was the silence that did. For the first time in months nobody asked me how I was, whether Id managed, or if I was going 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 fallen log, slipped off my shoes and let my feet dip into the icy river. And for the first time in a long while I didnt cry.
Two weeks passed. I carried buckets, dug trenches, washed pots. My hands were scratched, my back ached from the heavy tools, but inside there was only quiet. The people at the camp were a mixed lot: students, biologists, former IT guys, artists, volunteers from every corner of the country. All a bit eccentric, all a bit lost.
Who were you before? Lucy asked one evening, her red dreadlocks swinging and her voice low like a bassoon.
History of art lecturer, I replied. University in York.
Why did you leave?
My son died a year ago. He drowned. I couldnt go on. Words just vanished.
Lucy didnt gasp or wave her hands. She simply nodded.
I get it. My dad had cancer. He died in December. I fled here, otherwise I would have gone mad.
People dont lose their minds here?
Going mad is allowed here. Its not scary.
For the first time I smiled.
I began to draw on kraft paper made from old sacks quick sketches of the river, birds, people around the fire, sometimes my son, now in a fisherman’s vest with a paddle, smiling.
One day someone strung my drawings on a rope in the mess hall. That night everyone brought something of their own photographs, poems, bark crafts.
Im declaring a Day of SelfExpression, shouted James, the tall, perpetually shaggy coordinator, his voice bright. Show who you were, who you are, who you want to be!
What about you? I asked.
I used to be a marketer. Now Im a man with an axe. And I like it, he said with a grin.
We both laughed, and the scars we carried no longer felt like burdens.
In the third month trouble arrived, not from the woods but from the town. My mother and sister came up the river in a small boat, their bright windbreakers flapping, huge bags in hand, faces tight with reproach.
Emily! Have you lost your mind? my mother barked as she stood by my tent. Where have you been? These people are savages! Look at you! Good heavens, is any of this even legal?
My sister Claire surveyed the camp as if looking for a complaint box.
We were so worried about you! You stopped answering calls, ignored messages, vanished like a teenager. And youre almost forty! Youre a lecturer!
I stayed silent. The fireside crowd fell still. Lucy slipped behind me and pressed a hand to my shoulder.
Do you need anything?
No. Im fine.
My mother kept on, We think youre depressed, well take you home, weve spoken to a therapist, he says you need rehab.
This is my rehab, Mum, I said.
Dont be foolish. You sleep in a tent! You fetch water! You wander with strangers!
Theyre not strangers. And you you havent heard me for ages.
Emily, Claire interjected, youre not hearing 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!
No. You called, you said Pull yourself together, youre strong. Strength isnt help. Its an excuse to stay away.
A heavy hush settled, broken only by the rivers soft splash, as if it agreed.
James came over with a mug of tea. My mother sprang up.
Whos that? Hes brainwashing you?
Hes a person, one of the few who isnt scared of my pain. Im not brainwashed. Im alive.
Youre mad, Claire whispered. Just mad.
Maybe. But its my choice.
They left the next day without farewells. I sat on the dock, barefooted, a jar of honey in my hands. Lucy sat beside me.
How are you?
Like a tree thats been ripped from its roots and suddenly sprouts new ones.
Youre brilliant, lecturer.
Yes. Only now Im also a survivor.
By the end of September only a handful of us remained at the camp. Some had gone, others stayed for the winter. James stayed too; he built a winter hut, tended the stove and brewed mushroom soup.
One crisp afternoon we walked together to the river. I was silent for a while, then said, I think Ive fallen in love. Not with you, but with myself with this place.
James laughed. Thats the important part. The rest 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?
Then Ill build a porch so they know theyre welcome.
I knew the river remembered. The forest healed. Even a broken heart could learn to sing again if you listened.
The first winter at the camp was long and still. The woods froze in a white hush, the river glazed over with thin crystal ice that tinkled under the sunrise. Only five of us stayed over the cold months: James, me, Lucy, and a photographer couple from Manchester, Simon and Olivia.
I lived in a small cottage next to the workshop, its interior warmed by a castiron stove, shelves Id built myself, and a soft amber glow. I rose early, fed the fire, brewed seabuckthorn tea, and watched foxes dart across the frozen water.
In the workshop I hung a map of the UK. Little flags marked the towns from which people wrote. Some sent thanks for the photos and stories I posted on the camps blog; others asked:
Could I come for 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 eighteen, I feel lost. Can I just stay with you?
James looked at the map and nodded. Well need more huts, maybe a veranda. Spring will bring a
