a mini writing retreat

on sinking into spring

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It is ten o’clock in the morning on an April Wednesday, and I am swimming under the sky in a reed-edged pool. 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.

Last night, I slept alone in a treehouse with only my notebook for company: a mini mid-week writing retreat to nurture a new idea. After finally shutting my laptop for the day, I looked out across the flood plain towards the river and watched the sun set behind the opposite hill, the sky ripening to apricot, criss-crossed by golden chemtrails. Bats swooped in loops, in and out of the trees. The sun sank below the horizon, leaving a fading glow, and I drew a woollen blanket tight around my shoulders. As I made my way to bed, an owl glided by on silent wings.

In the morning, I woke to a heavy white mist filling the valley — the hill rising up behind like an island. I sat in the window seat and sipped my coffee, watching the mist swirl. Geese flew, honking, overhead. I sensed a shiver in the undergrowth and a pair of roe deer emerged from the edge of the trees, stepping gingerly out into the valley. Startled by the snap of a twig, they skittered away, white tails flashing.

I am swimming under the sky in a 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 and I close my eyes, revitalised. I am sinking into spring.

[My visit was a press stay — I slept and swam at Rewild Things.]