by Biddy Wells
*
I have been here for several days, working as best I can to help Felipe level a sloped area using pickaxes and shovels. The work ethic is relaxed and I am required to contribute only a few hours each day. When I haven’t been up half the night, stargazing and philosophising, I rise early and get ready to start work at nine, when the air is cool. I wait around for signs of life, which manifest in the form of birds and other creatures who I can hear more than see. But there’s never any sign of Bob and the breakfast he has promised: a banquet of scrambled eggs, ham, cheeses, breads and coffee. As the time passes, I try to sit in a state of blissful meditation and watch the morning come into focus as the sun rises and the mist magically disperses, exposing the solid yet soft landscape.
This is a special time of day. It is profoundly peaceful and I have it all to myself, yet all I can think about is that breakfast: the warm softness of the scrambled eggs, the steaming coffee and comforting bread. The expectation of breakfast and the knowledge that I need some energy to do my work combine to make me feel slightly anxious. I am keeping to someone else’s timetable, but it has not come to anything concrete. Perhaps it was merely an idea, an intention. I have taken it literally and feel slightly peeved.
After a few days, I stop setting my alarm clock, lie in bed until I feel like rising and arrive later each morning. The breakfast never materialises and we generally start work at lunchtime, when the sun is high and the temperature almost prohibitive. Felipe says he is acclimatised, so he doesn’t mind toiling through what I understand to be siesta time.
I find the combination of physical effort and intense heat makes me unable to work except in short bursts, interspersed with rests in the shade. Mad dogs and Englishmen! – or, in this case, a possibly slightly mad Englishman whose ideas are not matched by his actions, running things in a somewhat ad hoc way. The dogs seem very sensible and keep out of the heat and the work area. Lunch eventually appears at about three in the afternoon, by which time I feel weak with hunger and heat exhaustion.
Yesterday evening, I discovered a hornet’s nest in the tree right next to my van and promptly moved. My new location is higher, prettier and not next to a hornets’ nest, as far as I can tell. I start to relax and enjoy my lazy mornings, drinking tea outside my van with the horses that visit to eat acorns right outside my door, and gradually let go of the fantasy breakfast, satisfied instead with some muesli I find in my cupboard.
*
Today, Felipe and I were driven by Bob to a local town. A short scenic tour was given, though there wasn’t much to see, and we did a supermarket shop and recycling drop-off. This took up the whole long, boiling afternoon. It wasn’t really what I needed – a swim in a cold lake would have been more my cup of tea. On the way home I felt irritable as I was captive in Bob’s car, listening to one of his rambling monologues. I stared out of the window, wondering what I was doing here. I can imagine how I must have appeared. I am sure Bob notices my body language, which could be interpreted as disinterested at the very least. Anyway, at least I had picked up some more muesli and milk.
Bob is full of enthusiasm and ideas. He likes to talk about the way he sees the world and tell stories about past volunteers, some of which might be better left unsaid. What on earth will he say about me to future visitors? I know he means well, but his conversation tends to be rather one-way; he has no interest in me – or in Felipe for that matter, though Felipe doesn’t seem to mind. He is young and tolerant, whereas I feel I am becoming a grumpy old woman. Perhaps I am simply a fish out of water here.
It’s not that I don’t like to hear stories; I do enjoy a good yarn, and I find myself remembering Gilbert. A few years ago, when David and I were travelling in the Pyrenées, we had been given a contact, a must-see guy called Gilbert, whose long, golden hair was remarkable considering he was well into his sixties. From the moment we arrived as strangers at his ramshackle home, complete with extensive menagerie, he regaled us with stories about his many years as a roadie for some of the world’s top rock bands. Though he never divulged a name or broke a confidence, he generously shared anecdotes and described incredible journeys and antics that kept us entertained for hours every evening and late into the night. He confessed that he didn’t cook, so we took care of shopping and preparing meals. He also told us he didn’t really drink alcohol, but the three of us worked our way through his drinks cabinet, which had been remarkably well-stocked when we arrived. The hours would race by as we sat in rapt attention night after night, until it was time for us to move on and we left, filled up with his wondrous stories. He thanked us for helping him empty his drinks cabinet. After all, he didn’t really drink.
*
I find myself longing to get away. I guess I had made up a picture in my mind of a small, random collection of fellow travellers who would work together, sharing skills and roadtrip anecdotes. We would achieve something worthwhile and hang out, swim, drink cold beer and generally have a fabulous time. I feel a slight disappointment, which is the sum of expectation plus reality. It would be nice to have a bit of female company. I like Jenny; she is thoughtful and interesting, and I wish there were more opportunities to talk with her, but she is always busy elsewhere, with her own work.
This place is Bob and Jenny’s dream. It is wild and beautiful, but it will be a while before it has the kind of facilities that might be expected by the paying guest, and I am glad I am not paying. It has potential, though when I hear my hosts describing what they have created here, it seems to me a little rose-tinted. There was once a decent track, but it got washed away in a rainstorm, and as quickly as they clear a patch of ground, the waist-high weeds take over again. They seem to have lost momentum, postponing projects for one reason or another. It appears that they are losing a race to get ahead and manage their wilderness. I suspect that secretly they want to gift their land back to nature and forget any ideas about landscaping, vegetable plots, easy access and guests.
It takes a lot of time and energy to realise the dream of the ‘good life’ and to maintain the land. I know of couples back home who sought to create a romantic natural idyll, living off the land and solar energy, but ended up isolated, impoverished, at the end of an unnavigable track and their tethers enduring winters which drove them to drink, or insane, or both. That won’t happen here, I’m sure, but I feel that if I stay here much longer, I might succumb to a mild madness. Well, at least the Portuguese winter is fairly clement most of the time, and I wish Bob and Jenny the best of luck anyway.
*
Again I have woken at four in the morning, this time with a strong sense that it’s time to move on. I realise that I am marking time and that the frustration I feel has less to do with being wide awake in the middle of the night and more to do with an awareness that I must not ignore. Though I have enjoyed being here, I am no longer willing to risk sunstroke while grafting in the midday heat. It’s not for me. Bob and Jenny offered me a lot of freedom – they were welcoming and easygoing – but I need even more freedom than I can allow myself to have whilst being their guest. I long for freedom as though I have never had it. I go out once again to view the stars in a sky free from light pollution. The night is spectacular, with shooting stars in the south and the Milky Way stretching across the heavens. My insomnia has at least given me this opportunity – a gift from life. It’s just me and the stars.
*
This evening, I am sitting alone in my van in a place that I chose for a few reasons: it has a swimming pool, a bar and other people, hopefully of like minds. Also, it happens to be a naturist campsite, which appeals to my desire to soak up as much autumn sun as possible. I have lounged naked on nude beaches before, so it isn’t a problem for me in theory, but it’s been a while since I last walked around unclothed in front of people. There’s also the question of temperature. It has been very hot for the past few weeks, but I am told cooler weather is on its way tomorrow. Anyway, it’s dark now, and I have closed myself in for the night. I am very, very tired.
>
It’s seven o’clock in the morning. The clocks went back last night, so it’s now six, but it doesn’t feel like six. Messing with relative time is confusing and disconcerting. The sun has just come up through some fairly half-hearted, wispy clouds. Yesterday I had a disaster. Moving Myfanwy off my peaceful spot at Bob and Jenny’s, I had not secured the cupboards properly. To be honest, the doors are so stubborn and difficult to slide that I have to restrain myself from yanking them off altogether and flinging them out of the window. I didn’t secure the top cupboards, nor did I replace the top on the bottle of water, which I had also failed to tie down. I was caught up in the excitement of moving on. As I lurched round and down the winding dirt track back towards what people call civilisation I heard the sound of clattering dishes. That was nothing to worry about; I am used to it – they are usually all noise and no action. What I didn’t hear was my precious supply of Clipper teabags flying through the air into a puddle making its way silently across the floor. I now have the sombre task of counting how many fit-for-purpose, sun-dried teabags remain, then making an estimate of the time I have here in Portugal before reinforcements might arrive along with David. It’s close – too close for comfort – and we could be looking at an alarming deficit. That is to say, there might be a few days when I can only use one teabag instead of two or three. I hope I’ll survive.
*
I so want to hear from David; it has been a while since we’ve spoken on Skype or by phone. I feel a little isolated, far away from him and from home. I hope this feeling will soon pass along with the clouds that are filling the sky today. I imagined resting in the warm sunshine and swimming, but it’s a little bit chilly. I would like to meet some people I can talk and laugh with. At the end of my stay at Bob and Jenny’s, I took Felipe out for lunch. We shared a huge pot of Portuguese fish stew, a bottle of wine and a great deal of laughter. I wonder if I should feel guilty. Both ‘should’ and ‘guilty’ are words I would rather not entertain, but I find myself asking the question nonetheless. I haven’t laughed that much for ages, and I have no idea what we were even laughing about. If David was dining with a beautiful young woman I might feel a little insecure, but being on the road, companionship is necessary and I take it in whatever form it comes. I know I can be friends with a man without romance or passion entering into it, but I wonder if Felipe feels differently. We might hook up for another lunch in a nearby cafe – he said he would be passing this way in the next week or so – or we might never meet again. Either way, I hope I did not lead him on, however unwittingly.
*
Apart from the teabag trauma, things are going swimmingly. The weather has improved enough for just about everyone here to go about their business in their birthday suits. It would have felt weird to be different, and I, too, have been going around completely naked. At first, I had to adjust to that feeling that something was missing. It’s funny how, every now and then, I have a sudden panic, wondering if I have made a mistake and simply forgotten to dress, so that I have to have a quick look around to check that I am not the only naked person at a campsite full of clothed people. That would be embarrassing, and the stuff of bad dreams – though, when I really think it through, why should it be? Clothing the body is as peculiar as leaving it in its natural, unclothed state, if not more so – though living in Wales, it would be inadvisable to be a hard-line, full-time naturist. There are a few days each year, usually in June, when it might be bearable to strip off, but it’s a rare treat. Anyway, the people here are definitely nude, and I am comfortable in nothing but my skin. I find it useful to employ the rule of climbing ladders: just don’t look down. So far, everyone seems truly friendly, making good eye contact and including me in whatever is going on. I think I am going to like being here for a while: reading, writing, swimming and, at last, relaxing.
*
It’s Wednesday – not a great favourite of mine. Wednesday often feels like a low point in the week, imbued with the threat of woe. I can’t charge my laptop because there’s not enough solar power, so I have no music. The sliding door came sliding off the van again; this time, it whacked me on the head and caused me to sprain my wrist. I got the door back on with the help of two naked men, but now it is locked closed. I can’t Skype, because the signal here is so unreliable. I did have a good day, though. I swam and played Scrabble with a sweet English couple I met, who invited me for coffee and then lunch, to which I took a bottle of wine and some snacks. I finished the book I was reading and did a crossword. Swatting flies has been an absorbing activity, too. I wish I could talk properly with David.
What is going on? There’s no Wi-Fi now; it has gone, totally, in the whole place. Someone said the satellite has gone AWOL – the satellite? The malfunctioning Wi-Fi took my phone out, too, as I was connected to it at the time. I tried turning it off and on – that cure-all – but to no avail. This means I am totally out of contact. Is Mercury in retrograde? That might explain these strange happenings. I did want to get away from it all, but it’s slightly unnerving to be out of touch. How quickly we have come to depend on technology! I seem to have little challenges to deal with every few days. I wonder who or what is challenging me?
*
Thanks to a kind Irishman who lent me an adapter, I have electricity now, and though my side door is locked shut, I can access the van by swivelling round on the ‘captain’s seat’ at the front, which is quite fun. In fact, I have all I need here, not only the basics, I have luxury too. Last night I had a sauna, and a new couple arrived to camp in the spot where the English couple had been. I joined in with a large group for dinner at a long communal table in the bar. It felt good to be part of a friendly gathering of people from all over Europe. We were all dressed on this occasion.
I haven’t heard from Felipe, and now we have no way of getting in touch. It might have been nice to go out for lunch but don’t really mind whether he comes or not. I just feel bad that he might be trying to contact me. He could be slowly losing his mind at Bob and Jenny’s, still chipping away with his pickaxe and no breakfast inside him. I guess he can look after himself, though.
The new couple who arrived look like a pair of golden angels, or fairies – I am not sure which. They are Swedish, both musicians, and speak perfect English. It feels as though we have some common ground. They helped me by letting me use their mobile internet, so I was able to send an email out to let my friends at home know about my communications problems.
*
It’s been a good week. I have rested and the Wi-Fi is back on. The Swedish angels and I have been playing music, singing songs and discussing philosophy. I am sad to find that they are only staying a few days, but we have said we’ll try to hook up somewhere along the way. There’s another kindred spirit here: Jan is a sweet soul, gentle and troubled. In fact, he’s been broken-hearted since his long marriage hit the rocks, and he has come here to find space and peace away from his broken home. He overheard my end of a difficult conversation via Skype and afterwards he told me what had happened to him.
‘Twenty-seven years and two children, and now she says it’s all over. But why? She can’t tell me why, and I love her,’ he said. As he shared his story, he started to cry. I listened and held his hand for a while, and then I started crying too.
I had finally talked with David, but the conversation had been surprisingly awkward – an argument, really. Earlier in the year, it had seemed a real possibility that we would make this entire trip together – at least, that’s how I remember it. However, in the spring, our six-year relationship had become decidedly rocky, and our issues remained unresolved as I left on my solo adventure. David had promised to come and see me for a short visit, even though we were not sure whether we would stay together in the long term.
Our relationship had never been a particularly romantic one. I suspect that we both wondered how and why we had come to be sharing this part of our lives, as the futures we each envisaged were not all that compatible. When we met, neither of us was in a
great place – we were both recuperating from past unhappiness and a bit lost. Our jagged edges didn’t fit together comfortably to form one smooth, rounded entity. The first few years of our partnership were peppered with occasions when we couldn’t agree on how and where to make a home together. It was a scab that we picked at from time to time.
What we shared were similar core values, a willingness to talk about absolutely anything, and an appreciation of hedonism and Scrabble. Time went on and we rubbed along together quite nicely most of the time, possibly in the knowledge that we were somehow meant to be together. With hindsight, I can see that our sharp edges had been gradually worn away. We had become entwined and familiar, like family. We were living in a tiny rented cottage. At last we’d found somewhere we could settle, and so we’d created a productive vegetable garden. The location was perfect. Life was sweet.
Last spring we hit a rough patch. Both of us had been profoundly unsettled by something outside our control: our landlady had decided to leave her job and convert our cottage into holiday accommodation. The perennial issue of our living circumstances suddenly came into sharp focus, this time dividing us. Though we talked, we were not really getting to the nitty gritty of our problem, or any closer to a solution. Accommodation in our part of Pembrokeshire is hard to come by. Harbouring and perhaps hiding our individual disappointment and frustration, we became somewhat isolated from each other. That’s how it appears in hindsight.
It seemed like a poisonous boil had been festering under the surface, and one evening in May, it finally came to a very ugly head. We’d gone for an evening walk on the cliffs. I remember the profusion of wild flowers among the silvery outcrops, and I remember thinking that for the moment we were okay – happy, even. On the way home we dropped in on some friends of David’s for a quick drink. I wish we had been sensible and gone home, but hours later we were still there.
