A Writing Retreat in the Trees
I sleep alone in a treehouse called Kite, with only my notebook for company: a mini mid-week writing retreat to nurture a new idea. All the long afternoon, I sit curled on sheepskins and cushions in the window seat, writing and thinking, pausing only to make myself a fresh cup of tea and nibble the homemade shortbread that awaited me on arrival.
When I finally shut my laptop for the day, I step out onto the treehouse deck, look out across the flood plain towards the River Severn, and watch the sun set behind the opposite hill — the sky ripening to apricot, criss-crossed by golden chemtrails. Bats swoop in loops, in and out of the trees. The sun sinks below the horizon, leaving a fading glow, and I draw a woollen blanket tight around my shoulders. As I finally make my way to bed, an owl glides by on silent wings.
“I sit curled on sheepskins and cushions in the window seat, writing and thinking, pausing only to make myself a fresh cup of tea and nibble the homemade shortbread that awaited me on arrival.”
The next morning, I wake to a heavy white mist filling the valley — the hill rises up behind like an island. I sip my coffee, watching the mist swirl. Geese fly, honking, overhead. I sense a shiver in the undergrowth and a pair of roe deer emerge from the edge of the trees, stepping gingerly out into the valley. Startled by the snap of a twig, they skitter away, white tails flashing.
Later, after a leisurely breakfast, I make my way to Madam’s Pond. The sun is warm on my shoulders as I climb backwards down the metal ladder, disturbing the cloud-mirror surface of the pond. My breath catches as I lower myself in — this chill water has yet to lose its winter bite — but I strike out and swim in slow, measured circles, steadying my breathing. The air is sweet with the scent of apple blossom, and busy with birdsong: robin, blackbird, wren.
I swim under the sky in this reed-edged pool, washing the dull tint of winter from my skin. All around me, the world is humming — the landscape is bursting into life — hedges foam with blackthorn, roadsides are dotted with celandines and clumps of milkmaid, woodlands are bright with bluebells. Everything is so, so, green.
Climbing back up the ladder, I shake my shoulders, watching water droplets fly into the morning air. I towel myself dry, pull on my clothes, and spread a blanket on the grass, stretching out for a moment in the sunshine. I think of my notebook and the tender green ideas now pressed like unfurling leaves between its pages. Bees buzz in the apple trees as I momentarily close my eyes.
I return home feeling revitalised and creatively renewed — perhaps I too have been rewilded. Now I am ready to sink into spring.
Laura Pashby is an author and photographer. Her book, Chasing Fog — described by the Times Literary Supplement as ‘beautiful and haunting’ — is a meditation on fog and mist, a love song to weather and nature’s power to transform. Chasing Fog begins with an exploration of the fog that cloaks the River Severn — the same morning mist that can be seen from the Rewild Things treehouses.