My Little Nest

Have you ever found a nest, perhaps a wasps’ nest or that of a wren, and thought about the intricacy in its construction? I strongly believe it’s an inherent instinct for us, as human beings, to also build a beautiful home for ourselves. There is a deep part of us that require a space where we can call our safe space – a nest where we can curl up into and free our minds of the concerns that linger in the great world beyond.

When I tell my friends that I am living in a little caravan in the rural Forest of Bowland, I often get asked ‘Why…?’ And my response is always because I wake up every morning feeling blessed to be alive, and to be alive here!

It is an old 80s 2-berth caravan with a double bed, a kitchen space, a storage space, a wardrobe, a teeny weeny wood burner, and just enough space in the middle to dance. Outside, a very handy wooden porch has been built around the door and side of the caravan. It is tucked away in a forest garden enclosed within a dry-stone wall. Pathways meander under trees and tunnel through shrubs. Whenever I run through it, I feel a little wildness awaken inside of me – every time.

It is clear in my heart and mind that the entire valley is my home. I live in the valley, and the valley lives through me. And within this place of belonging, I have a little nest tucked away, just as the valley is tucked away into the Earth’s crust. To describe this valley in one word, I say it is ‘Tolkien-esque’.

My bed is surrounded by overhanging bookshelves. Being able to look at my books and reach for one from my bed to read is a wonderful gift on a rainy morning or at night. And while in bed, at the closing of day, the Sun gently meets the high moorland’s horizon right before me through the window. As the night rolls in, the fire burns warm and three wax candles burn steady and bright. A curly vine of fairy lights glow around me, and the sound of owls and other wild beasts echo across the valley and through the woodland. The sound of the fire roars and pops from time to time. Creatures of the night can be heard scurrying about among the undergrowth or in the snow. Aromas of spices and herbs and oils linger as dinner cooks on top of the wood burner.

I feel a part of the wild landscape around me. I am just another creature living in this place. I have my nest as the birds have theirs. We have become familiar with one another over time in the close proximity of our nests. I will mimic the call of an owl and one will reply, then several others will respond through the valley. Smaller birds come by to see if I have thrown out any breadcrumbs. A certain robin has on occasion flew into the caravan in the early hours of the morning and introduced itself by flying around while tweeting. Then I have to open a window to let it out as it struggles to make sense of the transparent wall.

While my daily life lacks the conveniences and luxuries of an urban environment, I find more pleasure and satisfaction in what I have – the fresh water I collect everyday from the natural spring; the fire wood that me and the farm community work together to source and prepare; the warmth and comfort of my cabin after a day of cold and rain. No matter how uncomfortable I might get during the day (the worst being wet socks and pants during the winter!), I always have my nest to tuck away into at the end of it all, and it’s truly wonderful!

Having shared this little space with a distant lover for a week during the summer, it has been imbued with an essence of deep connection and warmth. As with any cozy corner one makes for themselves, the energy that occupies such a space is moulded through the experiences that have happened there. [Without getting overly metaphysical...] I find the energy in my space to be one of calmness and security. There is no sense of hardship here – no residue of trauma. I make this point because many have lived here before me, in this caravan but also on this land. Before me on the moorland are traces of prehistoric occupancy. And so I believe that, with the nature of this valley, human beings have found sanctuary here for millennia.

‘The size of my hut, small yet not small, a place of familiar paths; the she-bird in its dress of blackbird colour sings a melodious strain from its gable.

A tree of apples of great bounty; a seemly crop from small-nutted branching green hazels, in clusters like a fist.

Excellent fresh springs – a cup of water, splendid to drink – they gush forth abundantly; yew berries, bird-cherries...

A little hidden lowly hut, which owns the path-filled forest; will you go with me to see it?’

- From an Unknown author ; Irish ; 11th century