by We were sitting under a huge sweet nut tree at the top of a steep field plunging down to the Dart, like a mercurial rivulet leading north to Totnes and beyond to Dartmoor, whose crooked granite bushes look like thumbs. The grid lock clicked and a thrush went through his dial-up modem store. A lone seal walks on the mud of the estuary, lazily waiting for the tidal river to retrieve it.
“I come into the peace of wild things / whose lives do not condemn with forethought / with sorrow … ”, said Frank, leading our group’s nature walk. “… after a while / I am sitting in the grace of the world, and I am free.”
Frank took a long breath, as if to deeply ingest a Wendell Berry poem, and then asked us to recall our earliest memories of nature. I saw my five-year-old self, in 1969, on his first journey from the city centre, sprinting up the Lake District hill like an animal sprung from captivity.
This meditation on nature and memory was part of a six-night wildlife discovery and meditation retreat at Sharpham House, the 18th-century Palladian mansion set in 222 hectares (550 acres) of south Devon parkland, high above above the angle of the Dart. Sharpham was founded in 1982 by Ruth and Maurice Ash as a charity dedicated to helping people cope with the stresses of modern life.
Our days began with 15 minutes of qigong under a sprawling 1,500-year-old yew
Not surprisingly, in 2024 it is more popular than ever. It offers a growing range of meditation courses, each with nature at their heart, and four retreats, the newest of which – the Coach House, converted from a Grade II listed stable yard in 2022 – has I’m staying there.
I hoped that Sharpham would help with my concerns: once an occasional visitor, now a perennial guest, who seemed to have every new thrill in the world. Our days began with a gentle wake-up call at 7am – no phone alarms for us, as Sharpham insists on bringing in devices – followed by 15 minutes of qigong, a series of slow movements and breathing exercises, spanning 1,500 years. old yew, a tree revered by the ancients as a symbol of death and resurrection. Most of us were barefoot in the grass dew, cold and still electric bits.
Afterwards, the group, myself and 12 women, aged between 25 and 75, walked slowly and silently – returning guests are silent from 9pm until after breakfast – to a meditation room The Coach House. Then, the two coordinators of the Reserve, Caroline and Jude, led us through a practice focusing on the breath.
Breakfast in silence on the first morning was disconcerting. In what would normally be an excited communion with strangers, we sat and focused on the food on our plates – the colors, the smells, the flavors. My knife against the plate sounded like a train on a tight curve. After a few slow, careful mouthfuls, I was full. As the week progressed, that silence for a few hours after waking up felt increasingly sublime and expansive, almost divine – one member of our group would describe it as “time without limit”.
That first morning was Frank’s nature walk (he was a volunteer, like all the coordinators, taking a sabbatical year from his normal life). He told us about Sharpham’s re-weeding drive, now in its fourth year, where the crops, vineyards and most of the sheep had been removed, wildflower meadows planted, and animals such as mangalica pigs and konik ponies brought in. to roam free, with the aim. replicating the actions on earth of their wild ancestors, boars and tarps respectively.
After lunch, always vegetarian, always great – Sharpham’s organic kitchen garden provided many of the ingredients, and on the menu during my week was aubergine and tofu curry, apricot and fennel tagine, chocolate cashew cheesecake and cheeses from Sharpham Dairy – the evenings were generally free. of formal activities.
I spent these wandering around the gardens designed by Cumas Donn, or through the wonderful woodlands of redwood, holm oak and cypress trees, fat and full in June, walking slowly, inhaling deep, with intent and curiosity. Every few steps, I would stop to marvel at the rows of peonies, standing tall as if on parade, presenting their delicate little golden bells for inspection, or clusters of cerulean alkanes.
On other days I walked, chaperoned by gyring swallows, through the wild flower meadows, planted only last year but already a riotous profusion of clovers, cornflowers, poppies, oxeye daisies and, very important, yellow sieve, called the meadow-maker from his role. in soil leveling after intensive grazing. Almost always, I ended up at the river, for hours, watching its tidal breath and cormorant flowing across its sparks, its wings pulsing like heartbeats.
Every evening there was an hour of group meditation, often prearranged by retreatants inviting them to share their feelings. There was a lot of talk about grief and loss, about the long trauma of Covid, about struggles with the demands of modern life. We were invited to lie down and close our eyes as Caroline gently called our names, one by one, and invited the group to send us love and care and asked us to do the same ourselves. By 9pm we were all in bed. Who knew he could be so relaxed?
That silence for a few hours after waking up felt more sublime and expansive, almost divine
Other nature experiences during the week included a wildflower safari and foraging, where we ate oxtail daisies, traditionally used to treat sore throats, succulent flowers and lemon verbena leaves, which tasted like sherbet; and a bug safari, where we frolicked around with nets in the long grass with childish glee and returned to Fraser, the insect expert, to proudly show him our haul. There were bird walks, walks aimed at trees or moths, or the tiny horseshoe bats that went out in the crepuscule from their roost on the roof of the Coach House, and whose chattering echoes we heard on bat detectors. Sometimes, we just walked paying attention to the rhythm of our feet and our breath.
On our last evening, we sat in a circle under the ancient yew tree around a fire bowl. We sang a song together. There was laughter, not an iota of judgement. We were each given a pine cone to project something we wanted to leave behind before we let it into the flames. The old me would have said “cynicism”, especially in relation to such rituals, but I seemed relieved by that, so instead I went for “concern”, and the group said: “Be it so.” And then we sat, in silence, resting in the grace of the world.
Related: Restorative in every sense: a rejuvenating retreat in Somerset
Jon Kabat-Zinn’s seminal 1994 book on mindfulness meditation is titled Where You Go, There You Are, from a quote often attributed to Confucius. Whenever I heard it, it always felt like a curse. As I drove away from Sharpham House, it felt a little more like a blessing.
Mike Carter was a guest at Sharpham Trust on a six-night Wildlife Discovery Retreat. The IS The usual cost is £545even though guests can choose different rates according to needs. this accommodation in a single room is included, all food and drinkand led by experts walks and talks
