It's May Day! Are you gonna light your fire? Here's a snippet from my book The Natural Year, now available for Kindle.

The lessons of May are about freedom, about energy and about determination. It's a dynamic time - not just of growth but of destruction too. An old friend of mine, Shan - a pagan priestess and therapist - says, "Freedom is stressful - it means making decisions, balancing opportunities, it means the freedom to break."

She points out that many marriages and partnerships cannot take the sheer scrutiny of May and break up around this time. It's also a season when many people choose to die. "It's a natural time to end things," she says. "It's like new energy being put into an old vessel. If the vessel isn't strong enough to take the energy, it will break."

Of course, this all ties in with the principal festival of May which is May Day. Forget all that Labour Day nonsense, in the ancient calendar this was Beltane. No point in being coy about it, Beltane is the great sex festival of the pagan year. The maypole is a blatant phallic symbol plunging down into the fertile (female) Earth. It is said that the pole also stands for the movement of energy between heaven and earth, the vital energy of the sky coming down to combine with the growing Earth which brings about the fresh new upsurge of spring.

As an interesting aside, it appears dowsers can detect spiral energy patterns in the places where may poles used to stand. My pal, Vivienne Tuffnell, points out that many maypoles were erected over underground springs and water sources, which usually give a spiral reading when dowsed.

All kinds of greenery were used to celebrate this vibrant festival. Houses were decked with the fresh branches and leaves of spring - why not revive the custom and decorate the house with garlands and wreaths or, if that seems a bit embarrassing to explain to the neighbours, make sure you have plenty of flowers around using masses of greenery and leaves. You could even follow the old custom of going "a-Maying", bringing in armfuls of the freshly flowering hawthorn. However be sure to obey the old rule that the blossoms only stay in the house for the one day. Branches of rowan can be picked too and placed over your front door as a protection. Or twist a wreath from birch twigs and give it to your beloved - a traditional gift at this time.

In the old days Beltane was also a great fire festival - like Halloween. Our ancestors had a practical use for the fire - they burned magical and medicinal herbs in it and drove their livestock through the smoke to fumigate them against illness. But fire is exciting as well as purifying and, above all, Beltane is an exciting time, almost a dangerous time. People jumped through the fire - not necessarily a custom I would advise you reinstate unless you are pretty agile. If you don't have access to anywhere to enjoy a large bonfire then light a festive fire in your grate. No grate? Light a candle.

Traditionally the Beltane fire was lit with a bundle containing three pieces each of nine different types of wood - birch (for fertility and the Goddess); oak (for the male principle or God); rowan (for life and protection against evil); willow (to represent death); hawthorn (for purity and purification); hazel (for wisdom); applewood (for love); vine (for joy) and fir (for rebirth, the symbol of immortality).

While you watch the fire burn, toast the fresh new year with a May bowl - simply place a few flowering sprigs of woodruff in a bowl and pour over a bottle of white wine and a wineglass of strawberry wine or strawberry liqueur. Mix and sweeten if necessary.

Happy May Day!

You can buy The Natural Yearhere - it's only a couple of quid!

Don't laugh but I went shopping. And I bought:
- a small rucksack
- three pairs of sports socks for James (I'm all heart)
- a t-shirt that says 'Aaaaggghh' (because, well...)...
and...and...and...
- a bikini

Yes, you read right. Now I haven't possessed a bikini since I was eighteen. But there was this Monsoon voucher I've had for about seven years (yes, I'm that bad at shopping - in fact it was so old it was actually a paper voucher rather than a plastic card) and I thought, what the hell? That pic on the left is it - nothing to scare the horses, huh? And praise be that shops now recognise that not everyone is, well, in proportion. So I got a size 16 top and a size 10 bottom - yes, I AMBarbie - though without the ten inch waist. Anyhow. It looked sort of all right in the dim lights of the changing room but, when I got home, it looked definitely all wrong. Not remotely the bikini's fault - it's all down to my flab.

And it got me thinking ('Meditations on Flab?') This is the time of year that you start reading all sorts of flannel about how to get a bikini body. And us gullible fools start doing a thousand crunches a day or buying the latest new super pill that promises to slice pounds off precisely the bits you want and...oh enough already. Let's say it again, for the hundredth time, you really can't spot reduce. You can target and build muscle in a strategic way (to a degree) but fat has a mind of its own. It's not just me, is it? Please - for the love of all that's holy - don't tell me that you all have washboard stomachs.

So I asked Henlu, aka Captain Oblivious (the guy who strung me out on a TRX and had me weeping over push-ups in Greece) what he would do if he were a woman who needed to look relatively tolerable in a bikini. And, really, it's seriously good advice - not just if you want to look halfway decent in a bikini, but if you want to be overall healthy. So, without further ado, I'll hand you over to the fabulous, and distinctly washboarded, Henlu van der Westhuizen...who's going to tell you about the Five Flat Tummy Myths...

Myth #1: Do extra crunches to flatten your abs.

Excessive crunches aren't the answer for tight abs. In order to achieve a toned look you'll have to focus on burning off the layer of fat that is covering up your tummy.

Tip: Don't obsess about crunches - instead focus on fat burning.

Myth #2: Take diet pills to speed results.

I know it's so tempting! The ads make compelling claims about the power of popping a pill, but don't fall for it. There is no ‘magic pill'. Diet pills are more likely to burn through your purse than to slim you down.

Tip: Don't pop a pill - instead burn calories with intense exercise.

Myth #3: Turn to packaged diet products to boost results.

Don't fall for the foods that are packaged as ‘diet' or ‘weight loss' aids. Quite often these products are packed with refined sugar and other artificial ingredients that your body doesn't need, and certainly won't help you attain that tight tummy.

Tip: Don't eat packaged diet foods - instead stick with nutritious whole foods.

Myth #4: Avoid all carbohydrates in order to achieve tight abs.
Carbohydrates have been given a bad rap, which is unfortunate because you can (and should) eat carbs while slimming down. The key is to stick with whole grains, oatmeal and brown rice while avoiding processed and refined flours and sugars.

Tip: Don't give up all carbohydrates - instead stick with wholesome carbs.

Chia and berry porridge...

Myth #5: Starve the chub away.

Trying to lose weight by starving yourself is not only ineffective it can also be dangerous. It may seem that severe calorie restriction would deliver the quickest weight loss, but your body is complex and by doing so you'll disrupt your metabolism and slow your results.

Tip: Don't starve yourself - instead eat small wholesome meals throughout the day.

Now that you know what not to do in order to achieve tight abs, it's time to go over your flat tummy game plan. Here's what you need to know in 3 simple steps:

Step One: No more junk food.
The best way to do this is by cleaning out your kitchen. Throw out the sugary, processed and fat-filled foods. Once the junk has been cleared out, don't buy any more of it. Remember that your beach-ready abs depend on what you eat – don't eat junk!

Step Two: Eat whole foods.
Replace the junk food in your life with plenty of the following: cooked and raw vegetables, fresh fruits, whole grains, moderate amounts of seeds and nuts, lean meats and low fat dairy. Clean eating really is that simple.

Step Three: Come train with me.
This is the most obvious step. You're ready to get into great shape and I'm in a unique position to make that happen for you."

Jane back: Yes, well, re the last step, he would say that, wouldn't he? But truly, if you live in London, he's a great trainer...or treat yourself to a week of super-training and amazing detox eating on one of his Hellenic Healthy Holidays.

Find out more about Henlu's training at www.henlupt.com
You can sign up for Henlu's newsletters (which give great tips, recipes and so on) by dropping him an email at henlulondonpt@gmail.com

So, I wanted to go back to Culbone, to the tiny church in an isolated Exmoor valley that helped inspire my first attempt at fiction, Walker. But memory plays strange tricks and the path I was sure would lead up into the woods, led instead down to the beach...

And the pebbles were speckled and spotted, seal-smooth pelts. And water-washed wood, with all the weight sucked out by tide and time. So we turned back and found the true path, tucked away where it shouldn't be, where it wasn't, at the back of the pub.

Through tunnels of green, the kind of hidden hollow-way, the kind of secret steps that have joyed my heart since childhood. What is it about that play of green on green, of shadow and light, of moss-embraced stone?

The path climbs up through woodland, sometimes you glimpse the sea, mainly it hides and you just hear its sluice and shunt. And I worried. Would the magic remain? Could it? And oh...oh...the little wooden hut (the one which let you make your own cup of tea, take your own biscuit and maybe buy a book or two; the one which trusted you to leave your pennies in the pot) was now disavowed...forbidden. A stern sign announced that this was Private Property - and that one should Keep Out.

And Vivienne had warned me that it had changed. And she was right. It was all fenced off and signed away and oh, oh, oh...how we humans love to fence and surround and name and own, don't we?

And even in the church itself, it was somehow all about private property and keep out. Thou shalt not.

And I felt bereft. The magic had gone. Lost under strictures and rules, fences and knots. Trespassers Will be Persecuted.

But then, as I sat at the foot of the cross, I started noticing different things. Things I hadn't seen before. Magical things. A face peeping out of the green on an old, old window. Can you see it? A merry imp?

The red red lichen on the gravestones - and so many of the people whose memory they marked were named Red. My Name is Red. Good book, btw - have you red it?

And it struck me that it's folly to expect magic to remain the same. How could it? Places change. People change. Everything changes (while still, in some way, remaining the same). We cling to our memories of how things/people/places are - we demand that they remain - but that entombs them. And maybe, just maybe, when we cling to old magic, it prevents new magic from being seen?

Anyhow. It struck me that I was being precious about Walker. I'd taken it down from Amazon because I felt dissatisfied with it, unhappy with my writing. I thought I'd maybe revisit it, rewrite it, re-magic it. But then, sitting in the tiny church, watching a shaft of sunlight on the list of rectors, that long line of rectitude scripturing-stricturing back to the 14th century, I changed my mind. Let it be.

So, really, who on earth wants to exercise indoors when the sun is shining? Come to think of it, who wants to exercise indoors at any time? I mean, which view would you rather have? This?

Or this?

Okay, so I’m very lucky. I live in the most stunning place, but surely anywhere has to be better than a sweaty old gym?

I’m back for another shot at learning to run (the last couple of attempts ended ingloriously with injury and a lot of sulking) and this time I’m determined to crack it. But I didn’t want to run indoors on the treadmill – I have this image (yes, yes, I know it’s never the way we imagine in our heads but still) of myself running free over the moorland, over the fields, by the river, up the hills (oh, okay, let’s save that one for a few months down the line, eh?). But Exmoor is tricksy – no neat running trails here; it’s all uneven terrain. So, I figured, what I needed was some trail trainers. Sportsshoes.comheard my wish and went all fairy godmother on me, saying I could pick a pair to try out – seems they’re all for encouraging people to jettison the gym and get fit outdoors (see, I’m on trend for once).

Slight problem. Too much choice. I’m a simple soul – I tend to go with the tried and trusted, so started looking at ASICS. ‘Nooo,’ shouted a friend who’s a keen trail runner. ‘You have to get Inov-8.’

‘Hell no,’ said another, equally keen. ‘Saucony, you need Saucony.’

Aaaghh.

So I looked, and looked, and seriously, there is way too much choice. In the end, I figured this is Exmoor and although I loved these…

And these…

And even quite liked these…well, I like the day-glo green bits but the pinky bits are mank...

...I really needed something waterproof to cope with bog, stream and puddle. So chose some Goretex beauties. And they’re fab. I took them to Spain on my Body Retreat weight loss and fitness break and they laughed at rocky trails, sniggered at perilous descents and managed to stay looking cool, calm and collected at the end of every outing.

Now then…these are all well and good if you’re going off-road like me but, be warned, they’re not suitable for road-running and absolutely not advised for treadmill bashing. You want nice normal running shoes for those (and, yeah, Sportsshoes do a shedload of those too). Why? Because there’s just too much grip on the trail runners and you run the risk of injury if you wear the wrong shoe in the wrong environment.

Incidentally, you probably know this but I hadn’t realised that, if you are running on a treadmill, you should always set it to a slight incline – once again, it’s all about preventing injury.

So, wanna join me? Let's go...

Some days are better than others. Some months are better than others. Some years…some decades… Yeah, you get the picture.

It’s easy to get lost in the past, isn’t it? You start by looking at old pictures and, hey, weren’t you so young and pretty? And, oh, didn’t you have a life back then – a job, a vision, a purpose; friends, family, home. Weren’t you so in love – with someone, with life, with yourself? And wasn’t the future so bright?

And what happened, in those years that followed? What turned the rainbow monochrome? What killed the magic stone-dead? Was it the first grey hair or the first deal that went west? The dimming of eyes or the dilution of love? Was there a definite point where it turned sour? Can you look back and see exactly that fork in the road where you made the big mistake, where you chose this way over that, or did it just float over you imperceptibly, like mist, until one day you woke up and the fog was so thick that you couldn’t even bite the hand in front of your face?

Isn’t it so damned unfair the way it never quite worked out the way you planned?

Ah, it’s so easy to get snaggled up in regret, in self-blame, in else-one blame, in disappointment and despair, isn’t it? You had your chance, you blew it and life will never be so rosy again. You’re washed up, old, tired, so bloody tired, and doesn’t the mirror delight in showing you how just plain nasty time can be?

Where did those days, weeks, months, years, decades go? It only seems a blink ago that you were standing, fresh–faced and hopeful at the prow of adulthood, peering into a future in which you could be anyone, do anything, go anywhere. And now? Now the walls crowd in around you. Time chews your face, biting it into furrows, spitting out lines.

Many of us have a golden time, a period, however fleeting, in which life felt good, the fates seemed kind. Or do we? Isn’t it all just hindsight? When I look through my photo albums at the pictures taken in my twenties, it looks like heaven. And, yes, it was a magical time. Looking back, I was one lucky bitch – I had the looks, the job, the flat, the friends, the fun. I knew what I wanted (work-wise), I went after it and I got it. I ticked off my goals one by one – first published feature, first feature in a broadsheet; first feature in a glossy woman’s mag; first feature in a tabloid; first column; first book; first TV appearance; first …oh, you get the idea. My love life was a shambles but hey, I had great work and fabulous friends and, as the song says, two out of three ain’t bad.

But you can’t turn back time, no matter how hard you wish you might. The past is sliding by, slippery like water – and, really, there is no past, it’s just memory. There is only now and what we choose to do with that now. And one can easily sit and drown oneself in the past, in that lovely lilac wine of Lethe that, if you drink enough, pulls you into a soft soporific befuddlement.

Or, alternatively, you can look back with love and a shrug, and then tug yourself into the here and now, gird your loins and all that malarkey and make of it something new.

Because if you don’t…if you can’t let go of the past, it will strangle you and squeeze out every last fragment of possible happiness. Cos time’s just a right bastard like that. J

The gym was shut this morning and it left me feeling untethered, adrift. When I’m feeling unsettled, out of sorts, out of touch, I throw myself into exercise. Yes, I know I need only do a short sharp burst of HIIT or Tabata to keep fit but why do 20 minutes when you could lose yourself for an hour or more? On the treadmill or the cross-trainer (as opposed to the happy trainer?) my body sinks into auto-pilot – it drops the need to stay tense – and my mind empties. I float in a motion of sweat – and it’s sweet.

So, instead, I took the SP for a walk and, as I climbed the first sharp incline to the woods, I wondered…why do I make everything so damn hard? I mean, everything. Why, for instance, so I always assault the toughest path to the hill fort? Nobody else goes that way (is that the appeal?) because it’s nigh-on vertical for mercy’s sake. Anyhow, today I took the aptly named Middle Path and, every so often, as I slalomed through the trees, I walked into a wall of air – its texture palpable, thick. It made me almost gasp and chew – the kind of air you eat rather than breathe.

And instead of route-marching round the entire circuit, I meandered to my tree, sat down and leaned against him, my head resting back against his bark and bite. My woof/wulf-tree, lately left lorn. And spiders wobbled around me and a bee looped lazily and the grass was so grassgreen (like children’s crayons) and high, stalks leaning into one another as if exhausted already by this shot of summer.

I sat and, well, just sat and became so very aware of my tension. And I tried (ho ho) to loosen my jaw, to allow my shoulders (the should/ought/musters) to drop, to unclench my heart. Just to be, just to breathe. And it was good.

The SP is always the best of companions. He meandered around, doing what dogs do but kept coming back, checking in and, every so often, winding himself onto my lotus-lap and solemnly licking my wrist.

Anyhow, that was it really. No great revelations, no deep meanings, no nothing really.

But I wonder...what do you do when you’re adrift? How do you moor (more?) yourself? J

I’m in awe of you gardeners, I really am. Never more so than in summer. I love the concept of gardening, I love the end results, and your spaces are so very beautiful. But, you know what? I’ve finally accepted that I'm just too damn lazy to be a gardener.

My garden has gone wild and I have decided that, rather than fight it, I’ll choose to like it that way. For almost my entire adult life I have molested gardens, fighting and flailing in an attempt to keep them neat, tidy, under control. But just like children who can spot a weakness a mile off, they seem to divine that my heart isn't in it and they fight back, tooth and nail, or rather thorn and spike. So this is the year of 'fuck it gardening', or rather non-gardening. I have realised that although I like being in gardens, I simply don’t enjoy the act of gardening. I'm a passive garden user rather than an active garden creator.

Okay, so back in the day when I had a gardener, I quite liked choosing plants and deciding where to put them (or rather where they should be put) but that was about it. Now I can’t afford either the gardener or the plants, I have realised it doesn’t matter that much. The plants still come – it’s just I don’t get to choose which ones and where. I have learned to, if not love, then tolerate weeds (what is a weed, after all, but a plant in the wrong place?). Okay, so the ground elder still bugs me a bit but, hey, it’s won, I’ve lost – I'm nothing if not gracious in defeat. The brambles are pushy to the point of rude but hey ho nonny no, free food come autumn! Yes, it's sad that some delicate souls get crowded out but then, that’s Darwinian life – survival of the fittest and all. But there are surprises like the irises that appeared in the erstwhile pond and the tiny wild alpine strawberries that taste like vanilla and bubble gum.

Now, let’s be clear, it’s not a total unadulterated wilderness. Adrian does mow the lawn (borrowing a lawn-mower; ours broke years ago) but carefully, avoiding the edges because the slow worms like it there, in the cool of the stone walls. And I don’t clear the undergrowth because the hedgehog needs some respite from pesky dogs. Yup, a wild garden calls in the beasts and birds and bugs, that's for sure. The place is buzzing with them. The grass snake is elusive – but I hope s/he is still out there somewhere.

From a distance (and bear in mind I’m short-sighted) it all looks tickety-boo.

Every once in a while I’ll realise it’s got a bit too far out of control. Usually when I can’t see out the windows or when getting to the back gate is like wrestling through the enchanted forest to Sleeping Beauty’s snoozing spot. So then I’ll haul out the shears and secateurs and go a bit bonkers (and end up covered in slashes and scratches). But not too much because I have always loved the secrecy of paths, and the sanctity of entrances, the liminality of certain spaces.

And, don’t get me wrong, I do the occasional bit of gentle maintenance – well, I dead head the roses and scatter the petals like confetti. Or I move benches around and re-arrange cushions.

But really, when the sun is out, on these oh so rare beautiful summer days, I just can’t be doing with the fussing and finnicketing. I prefer to stretch out with the SP on a rug on the grass, or curl up in a chair on the terrace - either with my nose in a book, or just snoozing or musing, drifting and dreaming. Glass of very chilled rose optional but welcome. J

Of course, having said all this, I know so many of my dear friends and readers are avid tenders of the soil, careful custodians of plant, bush and tree. It would be lovely to share your blogs and pictures so do please leave any links in the comments.

So I’m lying in bed, scanning through my body. It’s the start of a meditation practice I picked up from Arnie Mindell but today I’m not meditating, I’m just observing. Yup, the torn muscle in my arm is still twinging a bit and there’s my Achilles putting up its, er, ankle to wave its discontent. My jaw is clenched and my shoulders are tight (I’m not sure I relax even when I sleep). And my arms are aching from yesterday’s kettlebell class (but that’s a good ache). Mainly though I’m feeling dehydrated and my heart is beating far faster than usual. Why? The bottle of wine I downed yesterday in the sun. For the third day in a row.

And I wonder, again, why do I do stuff to my body that it hates? Why do I put stuff in my body that makes it weak and makes me feel crap?

I know it sounds a bit health Nazi-ish but pretty well all of us eat or drink stuff that we know isn’t great for us and it makes me wonder... Do we have some kind of unconscious (or conscious) death wish? I’m sure my father did. The doctors told him that, if he wanted to live, he needed to lose weight, he needed to cut out the heavy fatty food and the alcohol, and he really should do some exercise - but he chose to carry on regardless and dropped dead of a heart attack. It was his choice of course. He’d given up. And, okay, so it’s selfish of me to think this way but it still hurts. It hurts me because he could still be alive today; I could still enjoy his company; we could still be sitting and laughing; we could still be arguing and fighting (how we loved to disagree – on everything from politics to music).

And, you know, I’m not one for telling anyone how to live their life, what to do, what not to do, but it does strike me that when one is seriously cavalier about one’s health, it doesn’t just kill them, it hurts those who love them. So much. But I guess that’s our problem, not theirs, isn’t it?

Of course, you could argue that we’re all going to die anyhow, and so why not enjoy yourself with food and drink and whatever? Why die healthy? J And, again, what kills one person will slide off the cells of another. It’s not just food and drink, there’s a complicated equation of genetics and environment and mind that comes into play.

But really, we all know, at heart/liver/lungs, what suits us and what doesn’t. I know my body doesn’t run well on wheat – every time I eat it, I feel my pulse race. It’s the same with wine. Sugar and caffeine buzz my adrenals. Yet I love them. Curious, isn’t it, how we crave the things that are bad for us?

Try the scan thing. It’s interesting, if nothing else. Back in bed, I’m stretching out the fingers of my right hand. Every morning I wake to find they have become stiff and sore (thanks a bunch, Italian guinea pigs) and I have to wonder. Why my right hand? My ‘write’ hand (and right/write now it’s so hard to write). My ‘rite’ hand (and I have lost my belief in magic so that is right/rite and fitting). Because bodies often talk in metaphors and, if I do slide into a Mindell body meditation my hands… clench into fists.

What does your body say to you?

I didn’t tell you about my recent retreat, did I? It was fabulous, it really was – and I figure it might be interesting to those of you who are still looking for that magic weight-loss bullet.

I love The Body Retreat and this is the third of their breaks I’ve tried. I met trainer Julie Brealy years back, when I did something nasty to my Achilles and my pal Trisha recommended her sports massage. She was working for a local bootcamp in Devon at the time but now runs The Body Retreat alongside hypnotherapist and food guru, Juls Abernethy. Most of their retreats are UK-based but twice a year they ship out to a gorgeous cortijo in Andalucia.

Yes, there’s a lot of exercise – and you know how I love to get my exercise fix. But the interesting part for me was the food. I’ve been doing a lot of juice fasting lately (reporting for Queen of Retreats) and, while you certainly do lose weight on these, it doesn’t stick. It’s a great thing to do if you know you have been really poisoning your body and need a clear-out, but if you want to lose weight and keep it off, I’d go for something that combines sensible diet and exercise.

The Body Retreat programme is precisely calibrated to optimise sustainable weight-loss and the aim is to instil sensible eating and exercise habits you can continue at home. It’s not endless salad either – we ate great paella, tortilla and even got to make our own (healthy) pizzas. Can you make healthy and delicious pizza? Yes you can!

You get three meals a day at the BR plus three snacks, so you’re never hungry, but the portion sizes come as a shock. I eat pretty healthy stuff at home but I swiftly realised that I’m simply eating way too much. And yes, you can put on weight with too much healthy stuff. J

Seriously. If you want to shift pounds, you really do need to think about portioning down. Don’t be tempted to skip meals – that will only play around with your blood sugar levels and hormone levels – in the long run, eating too little can actually cause you to pile on pounds as your body panics itself into holding onto fat. So, three balanced meals plus three small snacks in between is the optimum – it keeps everything nicely ticking over and it means you don’t get hungry and then blow it all with a vast pig-out.

How small? Take a look at the meals we ate and bear in mind these are small plates – a 9 inch side plate, rather than a dinner plate. A couple of inches of smoothie, rather than a tall glass-full. A small handful of nuts, not a bag of peanuts.

The other thing Juls insists on is paying serious attention to how you eat. Her golden rules:

Always sit down to eat in a mindful manner (rather than grabbing something on the run or eating at your desk).
Take a ‘posture reset’ – before you eat, sit up straight and take three long, deep breaths.
Smell your food. Lift the plate up and sniff it.
Really taste your food – sense each mouthful – notice how it feels in your mouth, its texture, its temperature, as well as its taste.
Chew really well. Digestion begins in the mouth. And put your cutlery down while you eat.
Wait until every last morsel has been swallowed before picking up your knife and fork again.
Keep checking in with yourself. Are you full? Are you satisfied? When you feel satisfied, stop eating.
Regardless of whether you’re full or not by the end of your meal, always leave something on your plate.
Oh, and don’t drink water with your food – it dilutes the digestive enzymes. The odd glass of wine is okay, curiously enough, but just bear in mind it packs a heavy calorific punch.

Does it work? Yes. I shed nine pounds in a week. And the lovely Wendy, who gamely volunteered to be pictured with me in the shots we took for the Daily Mail, has lost over six stone with these guys. She keeps coming back (this was her eighth retreat), not because she needs to lose more but because it’s become her favourite type of holiday. ‘It’s addictive,’ she says. ‘No normal holiday makes me feel so good. It’s not just about losing weight and feeling fit either; it’s about self-belief. Everyone’s so supportive and I’ve made really great friends.’

She’s right. Yes, it’s hard work but there’s also plenty of down time by the pool and everyone was just so damn nice. Seriously, just lovely, lovely people.

See www.thebodyretreat.co.ukfor a full list of breaks and holidays.

Big thanks to easyjet who flew me to Malaga. www.easyjet.com

You can see my report for the Mail here:

And check out the full photo album on my Facebook page.

from www.lifebydanielle.com

I'm just back from The Deep Pause in Cornwall. It's a five day retreat run by life coach Danielle Marchant and I was there to report for Queen of Retreats. Funny thing, I wasn't even sure I wanted to go. I was feeling low, on one hell of a downer for all sorts of reasons, and I just didn't feel I had the energy or the inclination to engage. I felt I had nothing left to give and my life felt like such a mess that I really didn't think that something like life coaching could help in any which way.

Wrong. So wrong. It was a totally mind- and soul-blowing experience all told and I need to digest what went on for a bit before I splurge. But, right now I just want to give heartfelt thanks to Danielle, to Amy (who did way more than just cook incredible food) and to Lynn, Caroline, Sarah and Hayley (soul-sisters one and all)...oh, and Dave (who played guitar - another story in itself).

But let me start with the ending. Just before we left, Danielle read out Oriah Mountain Dreamer's poem The Invitation. I have seen the poem around a lot but, you know, I haven't ever really read it, I haven't really listened. This time I shut my eyes and I did listen, and it chimed. A lot. So I thought I'd just put it out here for you in case it has passed you by or in case, like me, you have never really paused to take it in.

There are parts of it that are really harsh, that make me wince - for example, 'I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself?' Ouch. And many other parts that make me want to punch the air and say 'YES!'

To be continued...hopefully.

So, there was a hill at The Deep Pause. A gentle slope hill, not a hard slog hill. At the top stretched a small stone circle with a fire-pit in the centre - a mini mandala. A line of trees protected its exposed flank, dappling shadow-shapes onto the green green, grass-green grass.

The first night most of our group crashed early to bed but Danielle, Lynn and I sat around the fire and had one of those conversations that smack you sideways because you simply aren’t expecting them. And it was all good. Very good.

Stretching out on the ground felt good too, and looking up as the stars stretched themselves out felt good, and listening to the myriad little sounds of the night felt good. So good, in fact, that when the others went in, I didn’t want to follow. I wanted to stay right there, in that sweet sweet spot, in the soft not-so-darkness and spend the night out under the sky, wandering/wondering through star semaphore. So I curled up in my blanket (my snugly heart throw) and did just that.

Vague thoughts of vision quests arose, of confronting fears and wotnot but, really, that was daft because there was nothing out there to confront – the scary monsters and super freaks are all inside me, not rustling in the hedgerows. My animal medicine was yet to come.

It got darker and darker but it was a silky blue darkness, like rubbing your face in velvet. It felt so safe up there, so held, just me and the fire and the stars; the cool breeze on my face and the crackle and warmth of the fire on my back and the rough and tumble of the earth against my side, grazing shoulder and hip and head.

It struck me again how insane it all is. There I was, this little ant stuck to this little planet like a fridge-magnet, whizzing through space, roller-coastering through time. Isn’t it crazy? You'd think that, at some point, the earth would go 'Oh, just sod it' and let go and you'd just ping off out there, like a stone from a child's catapult. For now at least, it doesn't but, while the body stays behind, the mind can go...anywhere, anywhen. Can't it?

I put another log on the fire and turned over to stare at the stars and dream and dream and dream.

'Proper' report coming soon on Queen of Retreats.

Waterloo Farm is pretty magical - if you're planning a trip to Cornwall, maybe check out their website?

While I was at The Pause I read Call Off The Search by Anna (Pasternak) and Andrew Wallas. Why? Because Danielle suggested I might find it interesting. She runs courses with Andrew Wallas and says he’s a good guy. So I did. It wasn’t as if I had anything else I was burning to read: I haven’t read anything lately that has rocked my boat, that has really made me think or feel.

It seemed a bit familiar and then I remembered that I’d read an extract from it in a supplement when it first came out. It had annoyed the hell out of me. So I guess that’s one very good reason to read it, huh? What annoyed me? Well, the book is all about how you shouldn’t ever give up on a relationship; that you have to work through the fights and the anguish and the tough times. That love relationships can easily call up your ‘core wounding’ – that early first pattern of hurt and disappointment we suck in with our mother’s milk – and offer a wonderful opportunity to heal at a deep, primal level. Which is all very stoic and good except that…Andrew Wallas left his relationship. He told Anna Pasternak she was a posh spoilt insecure bitch, got her sobbing in his yurt and then had this sudden ‘ka-boom!’ realisation that she was his One True Love. So, what did he do? He left his wife. Just like that. All very amicable apparently but still…

Marriage neatly dissolved, the whole book is all about how he and new ‘True Love’ Anna work out their stuff. It's about how they fight and bicker and nearly break up all the time, how they love each other but also sometimes hate each other; and how that can all change in a heartbeat. Bottom line, they just slog it out with brutal honesty. Which is great. I mean, good for them…but, but, but… all the way through I was left wondering ‘And what about his ex-wife?’

The relationship, he says, was ‘emotionally empty’. So then, it’s okay to walk out of a relationship if it’s ‘emotionally empty’? I dunno, it just seemed all a bit too convenient somehow. How do you know if your relationship is ‘emotionally empty’? Maybe emotionally empty is a manifestation of core wounding? Bottom line, how do you know if it’s doomed, terminal, that it’s time to pack up your yurt and move on, or whether you should stay, drive in your yurt pegs a bit deeper and sledgehammer away at it? A&A just don’t answer that question. So I was left pondering it myself.

Maybe it’s about a ‘charge’? If a relationship still has ‘juice’? As the saying goes it’s a thin line between love and hate but both are positive emotions, right? As in emotions that have a positive charge, that are powerful, punchy, full-on. I’ve always felt that the true opposite of love isn’t hate but apathy. If a relationship has become apathetic, if the parties involved are just going through the motions, presumably that is what A&A are calling time on? Can you give apathy an adrenalin shot? Can you juice it up? Or should you just sigh and move on? What if your core wounding has left you unable to love?

I don’t know. I really don’t. All I know is that, all through the book, I kept wondering when we were going to hear about his first marriage. I wanted to know what happened to his ex-wife. Did she find ‘True Love’ as well, or is she sitting somewhere reading the book and shoving her fingers down her throat over each gushing paragraph? How did she feel when he told her it was all over? Was she gutted or secretly relieved? Did she punch the air and go, ‘Yessss! I always hated that fucking yurt!’

I guess I wanted to hear about how one lives when the projections of falling in love fall away. That, to me, is the more interesting question. A&A are clearly still madly passionately in love. Will they still feel the same way in twenty years? Is that True Love? What is?

I wasn’t intending to write this blog post. There was a bit in the book, a concept that intrigued me and I was going to blog about that but this came out instead. But, hey, it is what it is. What do you think?

Well, I wasn’t going to write about food today but then I popped on Facebook and saw that Amy Levin had posted up the recipe for the absolutely beyond awesome truffles that she made on The Deep Pause and so I thought, right…let’s talk about food.

Now, you know me…I went from punishing myself with food (eating myself nearly to death) to punishing myself without food (nearly passing out doing 80mph on the outside lane of the M5 cos I’d been fasting for over a week – no, not that intermittent nonsense; full-off eating nada fasting) to just not really bothering about food at all.

Nourishment. That’s what I’d forgotten. I’d been eating to live. Cooking as a chore, eating as a bore. And, yes, I was feeling dried up, desiccated, like coconut that’s been left in the jar and forgotten at the back of the cupboard for years; dried up like old raisins and sultanas turned chewy and mank.

Amy’s food at The Deep Pause was juicy…it had a touch of decadence, of abundance, of generosity, of power. Now, don’t get the wrong idea – it was also mega-healthy, the kind of food that makes your cells sing; the kind of food that is just so full of life and passion that it makes you want to do mad things like Crossfit (well, for about four seconds). No gluten; no sugar; no meat – just total deliciousness.

When I arrived the table was a cornucopia, piled with fruit, home-made biscuits and energy bars, two types of roasted almonds – one spicy and punchy; the other lazy and sweet (but with a tangy kick). Oh. My. God. Could I ever eat enough of those bastard almonds? And bonbons, bloody bonbons. And truffles. But healthy bloody truffles and bonbons for bonbons’ sake! They tasted like the thickest darkest pure chocolate but were made of …

‘Go on,’ said Amy, ‘Guess!’

We tried…thought of everything but…

‘Nah, you won’t get it,’ she said in triumph. ‘Black beans!’ Who’da thought? And she poured out glasses of something that looked like a witch’s potion – dark berry-red and dangerous. Hibiscus, rose and schizandra infusion, mixed with sparkling spring water and sweetened with a few nectarish drops of vanilla-flavoured stevia. We sipped, then we slurped and kept passing the jug.

‘It’s a heart opener,’ she said. Did it work? Yeah, it did.

Amy is a kitchen superhero – part ninja, part alchemist. Every tenth word is ‘fuck’ but the way she says it makes it sound just plain sweet. And she sings as she cooks – James Taylor mainly, in the kind of voice that pierces through all bullshit and takes you to the heart/art of sound. And I’ve always been a bit sniffy about James Taylor but, you know what, I’m mellowing.

Anyhow, enough already. I ate. I ate more and more as each day went by. It was food made with love and mindfulness and every mouthful tasted like bliss. And, no, I didn’t put on weight, not an ounce. I just put on a dose of juiciness and came home determined to be a bit more nourishing to myself – on all levels.

If you live in or around London, check out her raw chocolate workshops and wotnot.

If you don’t, check out her website and blog which is jam-packed with recipes and insights and general Amy-ness.

What? You want the recipe? Of course you do. I'll share this one (thanks, Amy!) but you'll have to go over to the website to catch the rest.

Top Secret Chocolate Truffles

Ingredients

1 tin of black beans
50g xylitol or coconut sugar
1 dropper full sweetleaf stevia
1/2 cup or 50g coconut oil, melted or same amount of cacao butter, melted
50g-70g cacao or cocoa powder
1 tsp tamari
2 tsp vanilla powder or 1 tsp extract

Method

Open the black beans and pour the contents into a small pan and warm them through
Sieve the liquid from the beans and transfer the food processor or high speed blender
Add remaining ingredients and process until smooth and creamy. If you have a low quality food processor, then you will have a slightly inconsistent texture, but it’ll still be epic
Taste the mix and see if you want to add more cacao powder (or cocoa powder) or sweetener… everyone is different so you may want them darker or sweeter than me
Transfer to a bowl and pop in the fridge to set, about 30 minutes or so
Once set, roll into balls in the palm of your hand (if the mix is rather firm, it’ll loosen when you begin to roll them)and then into a small bowl of cacao or cocoa powder to coat
Pop back in the fridge to set and that’s all!

Note: Xylitol sounds like a chemical shitstorm but, truly, it isn't. It's a natural sweetener that is actually a fine anti-fungal too (so ideal if you're trying to cut out sugar because of candida problems). Stevia is also okay, providing you get the sweetleaf variety (think health food shops, rather than supermarkets).

Core wounding. Those deep entrenched, often hidden, beliefs that let us scupper ourselves time and time again.

I first came across all this when I did a course of Rebirthing, absolutely ages ago. I’d always felt that my ‘core issue’ was abandonment – and that it had kicked in when my father died (when I was ten). I blamed my inability to form relationships on it – it was a handy tag. I'm not so sure about that any more.

Rebirthing, however, looks for stuff that happened during or around your birth, or even before it. I remember asking my mother if there was anything else I should know and she told me, very honestly, very bravely, a shedload of stuff that isn’t mine to share here. But it sideswiped me. Left me horrified and humbled. And it made me realise that my core issue is probably quite different. That, at heart, it was – and maybe still is - Shame.

What does Shame say? Shame says ‘You’re a mistake, you’re disgusting, you’re bad, you’re revolting.’ What does Shame do? Shame makes one overly nice and giving, overly scared of hurting people, scared shitless of being exposed as a fraud. Shame makes one a desperate over-achiever, a perfectionist, ever-anxious, ever-fearful. Shame makes one a coward.

Actually we didn’t really look at core wounding at The Pause. But something Danielle said struck a core-chord. ‘Being more connected is a helpful way to be in the world.’ And that sense of connection was something that came up strongly for me at The Pause. Being totally alone is bloody lonely – but it’s also safe. If you don’t share yourself with others, if you keep hidden in your little hermit shell, if you push everyone away, if you tell everyone to fuck off (whether overtly or covertly), then you don’t need to confront yourself out there, do you? You can hold tight to your safe little world.

Yet, though sharing is scary, it can also be a relief. I was surprised to meet with such acceptance within our little group, amazed that they looked at me and didn’t see the monster within.

Ach, psycho-babble, jibber-jabber , mindless mind games and so on and so forth, huh? But still, I feel there’s something in it. Because we’re little psychic sponges, we really are – and, even if nothing is said, nothing overt, we pick up atmospheres, we read the wind. And, no matter how much you like to think you’re an island, this stuff does have an effect on how your life pans out, in particular how you relate to other people. What messages did you pick up as a baby, I wonder? What are your core beliefs?

Might it be abandonment (nobody cares about me, I don’t matter, I can’t trust); inferiority (I’m not good enough, I’m stupid, I’m boring); rejection (I’m a burden, nobody wants to spend time with me, I’m unwanted); damage (something’s wrong with me, I’m a failure), or maybe arrogance (I’m too much; I’m right, you’re wrong)? Something else entirely?

What messages were drilled into you from an early age? It’s curious but there are some people who, from what they say, had idyllic beginnings – parents who wanted them wholeheartedly, who loved them deeply from the get-go, who were the epitome of Love and Caring and Devotion. And yet…

Anyhow, just musing out loud again. What do you reckon?

Anyhow, where was I before I became sidetracked by core wounding? And, before that, before I became sidetracked wondering about Andrew Wallas’s first wife? Oh yes, Ho’oponopono. This was the thing I was thinking about at The Pause.

This was the thing I read about in A&A’s book that struck me. It was pretty much an aside, an anecdote told in passing, but it made me wonder. I’d not heard of it before. So I looked it up and, okay, so it’s a Hawaiian spiritual healing thing. By the way, don’t you have to love the word ‘thing’? It pleases me every time I type it. Though I wish I had a thorn on my keyboard so I could spell (yes, in every way) it the Old English way. Why? Because the rune ‘thorn’ looks like a thorn and...when I went looking for a picture of it to show you, I found this (hideous picture, but hey, once you've read the whole post you'll see why this made me smile).

Anyhow. Ho’oponopono. Apparently (and do correct me if I have this wrong – I’m not Hawaiian) it comes from a verb that means to put to rights, to put in order, to shape, to correct, to revise, to amend, to tidy up. It’s about putting things straight, not by pushing at external reality but by looking within ourselves. So, if you want to improve your life, you have to heal your life. And there’s only one place to look and that’s inside your own self. Yup, that makes solipsistic sense to me.

Illness, the theory goes, is caused by breaking sacred laws and can’t be cured until the transgressor atones for the transgressions. Illness is created by the stress of anger, guilt, recrimination and lack of forgiveness. Not just our own illness, but the wider illnesses of society. So we are responsible for…everything – for the terrorists, for the rapists, for the banks and the economy, for pollution and war and…everything. Ouch. But…that kinda chimes too. It puts me in mind of Arnie Mindell’s ‘world work’. It also puts me in mind of my old dear anti-guru Marek who said that you can’t heal the world; you can only heal yourself (but that that healing might, in itself, heal the world).

Anyhow. Andrew Wallas quoted the story of a Hawaiian psychologist called Dr Ihaleakala Hew Len who said he didn’t need to have consultations with the criminally insane patients in hospital; he just wanted to see their charts. He studied the charts, so the story goes, and then looked within himself to see how he created each person’s illness. And, as he improved himself, the patients improved.

Everything in your life is your responsibility. The entire world is your creation. Being conscious is about taking 100% responsibility, responsibility for everyone’s actions, not just one’s own.

Hmm, that’s a tough one, huh? Taking responsibility for the haters, for the hitters, for the abusers? Well, why not? You know what I’ve found? It’s actually a lot more comfortable to take responsibility than to harbour anger, resentment, sorrow, blame. Who wants to be a victim? Who wants to be eaten up with hate and misery?

In a world that feels like it’s spinning further and further into chaos, in a world where it’s so easy to feel hopeless, powerless, pointless, well maybe this is something small that we can all do. Maybe it’s true – maybe by clearing our own errors, we really could clear everyone. Maybe by healing ourselves, we could heal the world too. Who knows? Nobody. None of us know anything, anything for sure. So why not try?

How do you do it? It comes down to four simple phrases.

- I love you.

- I’m sorry.

- Please forgive me.

- Thank you.

You know what? It's stupidly simple but I like this. It works for pretty well everyone with whom I’ve had any kind of conflict, any kind of history. So I’ve been trying it. Meditating on a person and just repeating it, pondering it, then throwing out that love and that hope for forgiveness. And trying not to get caught up in the mind games, in the ‘yeah buts’ and the ‘but you’s’ and so on and so forth. Because mostly it’s all fiddle-faddle and, even when it’s not, what’s the point in clinging onto it? Life’s short. And, as I’ve said so many’s the time before (but need to keep remembering) Love really is the bottom line. That is all I 'know' for sure and certain.

So…I love you. I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Thank you. J

Anyhow. You have to laugh. I’d given up on synchronicity – just called it coincidence. I’d given up on magic – just called it mind games. And then, while I was in Cornwall at The Pause, I was woken up by the loudest bird I’ve ever heard. It wasn’t just cawing, it was cawing right outside my bedroom window at stadium rock gig level. It was the Ian Gillan of crows, the Ozzy Osbourne of avians.

So I went down to breakfast and took my bowl of Bircher muesli to the table out on the patio and…shit. Literally. Bird shit on the table. Not just a little plop but a great stinking puddle. So I went in to get a cloth and, when I came out, there was more – all over my chair, all over the wall behind it, all over the ground around it. A veritable splatterfest of shit. No wonder that bloody bird was shrieking – it clearly had a shit-storm of diarrhoea going on. A right belly-ache.

Anyhow, nobody else seemed much interested, or even much aware of it at all – it was obviously my shit, and nobody else’s. I forgot about it until that afternoon when we sat down and each picked out a card from the Medicine Cards Pack. And, lo and behold, what did I pick out? Crow. Bloody crow. Shitty old crow. Well of caws I did.

But actually, Crow is really reallyinteresting. Listen to this:

“There is a medicine story that tells of Crow’s fascination with her own shadow. She kept looking at it, scratching it, pecking at it, until her shadow woke up and became alive. Then Crow’s shadow ate her. Crow is Dead Crow now.”

Yeah. That’s about right.

Crow can shape-shift and that chimed too. I sometimes feel as if I am too many people, too many things, too many personas all fighting against one another. Maybe I just need to shape-shift a tad. Maybe I also need to throw up some illusions.

And then it said, “Human law is not the same as Sacred Law.” Oh yes. I have no truck with human law, I really don’t. And, curious, that law thing – see yesterday’s post.

“Crow sees that the physical world and even the spiritual world, as humanity interprets them, are an illusion. There are billions of worlds.” Right on, Crow.

And so it went and so it did. It said I have to be willing to ‘walk my talk’ (ouch), that I have to ‘speak my truth’ (ouch ouch), that I have to ‘know my life’s mission (*frown*), that I have to ‘balance past, present and future in the now’ (do I look like that much of a magician??).

Later that day I found myself drawn to pick up a pen and a paper pad for the first time in years and, of caws, I scribbled out a crow. And it grew and shifted and gave birth to all sorts of shapes and creatures and faces and forms. Creative Crow.

And then, when we went to the beach…ah, but that’s another story.

I wonder...which totem would you pick from the Medicine Pack?

So. Yes. We went to the beach. To Bude. It’s about half an hour from lovely Waterloo Farm, the Cornish base for The Pause (check it out if you fancy a farm holiday – they have several renting cottages).

It wasn’t the best day, weather-wise but never mind. We spread out the blankets and looked at the sea and decided that, no, it really wasn’t warm enough after all for a dip, however bracing. Danielle suggested we might want to go and look for a stone that spoke to us, a heart stone, that we might want to meditate with it, or paint it, or maybe not; that we might want to do something entirely different.

I wasn’t quite sure how I was feeling. There was that sense of disappointment I always get at the seaside – that’s it never quite how I imagine it will be. That old sense of waiting for the perfect beach day that never comes. Old childhood stuff, maybe. Who knows?

Anyhow, after a while I wandered off and sat down away from the group. Needing some space. Feeling a bit off-kilter. I wondered if I might find my ‘special stone’, not by wandering along the beach and seeing what caught my eye but by picking out a spot and digging around, under the surface. To find hidden strengths maybe? So I picked out stones and found myself placing them in a circle around me. A protective circle? A magic circle? That would be nice, but it was actually a small circle, a constraining circle, a hardly-able-to-breath circle. And what did I find? Small stuff. Boring stones. Nothing special. Nothing juicy.

I took a deep breath and kicked the circle. It wanted to open into a tunnel…no, not a tunnel…a funnel. A retort, an alchemical vessel. Had I been fermenting again, like smelly old sauerkraut? And then it became a passageway, a birth channel. Leading to? The sea? The wider world?

So I got up and walked out, looked around and…hellfire, out there was an exciting world, full of big pebbles, different pebbles, really exciting pebbles! WILD PEBBLES! And not just pebbles, but rocks, and sea and sky and how have I got myself trapped in such a tiny tiny place? With so few resources? Without passion. Without my tribe. How have I settled for something so godamn small and mean and mundane?

What do I want, I asked myself. And the sea and sky winked. I want to dance on the whirlwind. I want to breathe deep. I want to be true and wild and free and…

And I found my pebble…the perfect pebble. One that fitted softly into the palm of my hand. And on it? A wild dervish-dancer spinning in the storm.

Except that…when I showed it to my mini-tribe, they laughed.

‘Hey, look! It’s your crow shit!’

And, sod me, they were right. It did look like a giant splodge of bird crap. And then I looked up and over at my circle-cum-alchemical vessel and, would you believe it…

‘No!’ I wailed.

‘What?’ they said.

‘That dog, that big retriever…it just shat in my circle!’ I said.

‘No way!’ they said.

‘Way!’ I said, and we all burst out laughing.

So I thought again. Hmm. Life has been a bit shit lately and I am more than a bit of a shitty person (and that’s fine; it is what it is, no point denying it).

Maybe it’s about time I started owning my own crap. Maybe it’s time to break out and start dancing in the shitstorm once again. J

A dear old friend said something yesterday that gave me pause. ‘Magic don’t work if you don’t believe in it.’ And I thought about it, and felt about it, and I think and feel she’s right.

If you shut your eyes and close your ears and lock away your hopes and dreams behind a mile-high wall, then, sure as eggs is eggs, ain’t nothing magical going to happen, is it? Just as you won’t win the Lottery if you don’t buy a ticket, you’ve got to meet magic halfway. You’ve got to give Fate a chance.

Maybe there is no real magic, maybe there are no elves and dragons, maybe there are no fairies at the end of the garden or gold at the end of the rainbow, maybe there are no fairytale princes or genies in bottles granting wishes or happy ever afters but, hey, so what if there aren't? Let’s live as if there were, because…well, maybe because life is simply nicer than way. And who knows?

Delusion? Maybe. Bonkers New Age claptrap? Quite possibly. But hey, who gives a fuck? J

If you baulk at that, then maybe change the words. Spell it differently. Instead of ‘magic’ say ‘good things’, say ‘chance’, say ‘serendipity’, say whatever the hell you like but just open up, allow a glimmer of hope in for hope's sake.

Sometimes you have to believe in order to let the magic happen, to give it a toehold, to let it breathe. I’ve told you already that there was a firepit at the Pause, on the top of the sun/moon/starlit hill, within the magic circle – and we sat around it at night and talked, and meditated, and watched the stars and all sorts. And it was lovely. But…

‘I almost brought my guitar,’ said Sarah.

And we all sighed. Music…that was what was missing. Because there is nothing more magical than the combination of fire and music.

Remember this magical fire song?

Lynn said that her chap Dave was a musician, and she said, ‘Shall I get him to come and play for us?’

We looked at her in amazement. They live in Whitstable, on the East coast, and we were in Cornwall, right down in the far West, at the other end of the country.

‘But he’s 300 miles away,’ someone said.

‘So?’ She smiled and turned to her phone.

She whistled and he came. Just like that. He just got in his van and drove, not quite all night but for a heck of a long time, just to come down for an evening to play for us around the fire. Just? The power of Love, huh? And it was so so magical, lounging around the fire, sipping wine, nibbling on those healthy truffles of Amy’s, and passing round Dave’s list of songs and shouting out numbers, like a Chinese menu.

And, funny thing…there had been a lot of tears during our five days at The Pause, but I hadn’t cried once. Much as I will sob in private, I never let my defences down in public. But when he started playing, I couldn’t help myself. Tears welled up and I started gulping a bit. And it was, really, deeply embarrassing because it was that old bloody standard, The Sound of Silence, the bane of my school assemblies. How many times had I strummed it out on stage? So clichéd. But it just whacked me in the solar plexus and then whammied me in the heart. And, yeah, I cried. And was that magic? Yup.

Anyhow, you can book Dave for your own firepit, should you wish. I hear he’s also pretty good at clubs and parties and anything really. Cos he's one absolutely lovely guy. No bullshit. Just magic. http://www.davela.co.uk

So, it’s finally time.

After all the shilly-shallying, will we-won't we, we are finally going to put this crazy, gorgeous, mad house on the market.

How do I feel? Conflicted. I thought this would be my forever home, I really did. If you’ve followed my blog for some time, you’ll know how I fell head over heels in love with the place, with everything about it. I could see past the layers of vinyl wallpaper, past the nutty layout (inherited from when it was a sporting hotel). Its problems didn’t faze me – I knew I could put it right. Okay, so it’s not quite finished – there are bits that still need some TLC, but the bones of this house are good. Oh, let’s be honest – it’s drop-dead gorgeous. That vast sitting room with the immense fireplace and the vaulted ceiling that could be a chapel or, if you’re feeling fanciful, a Viking great hall (on a small scale); those arts and craft windows with the dragon latches; that secluded garden; those suntrap bedrooms.

Why are we moving? Because it’s time. Because things change and, no matter how much one might like to keep everything in aspic, it’s akin to asking the tide to stay put and please wait just there. No lapping, if you don’t mind.

After twenty years of country living, it’s time to head for the city again. London? No. Much as I love my old manor, I couldn’t move back even if I wanted to. My old house (a three-bedroom terrace in North-East London) would now cost close to a million. Crazy, huh?

‘Of all the people I know, I never thought you’d settle in the country,’ said an old friend I met recently. ‘London was your happy hunting ground, your patch. I never thought you’d stick it in the sticks.’

Yes, I loved London. But I have loved the countryside too. Over the last twenty years, I have watched so many city dwellers arrive starry-eyed, only to become disillusioned, and race back to the smoke. Mainly they find the countryside boring in comparison to the city. There simply isn’t the diversity of shops, entertainment and people that cities have.

Here in Dulverton, we’re lucky – we have four pubs, some great restaurants and cafes, tons of individual independent shops, plenty of clubs and activities and plenty of deliciously odd people (as well as some very nice normal ones, of course). Even so, people want more - it often seems as though what they really want is the city with a few cows, sheep and thatched roofs. But the countryside (even relatively 'civilised' outposts like Dulverton) is a very different beast from the city and it takes a certain mindset to get on here.

I've been lucky. I have made great friends here – a far greater variety than I ever did in the city. Back in London my friends were all pretty much arty media types – journalists and musicians, artists and fashion designers, with a garnish of lawyers. Here in the country, my pals are teachers, carers, farmers and builders; fitness instructors, beauticians, owners of small businesses. The age range is far wider and, whereas in London my friends shared much the same political views, in the countryside one simply can’t afford to let politics get in the way of friendship. I’ll miss them and this community that open-heartedly welcomed us.

I will miss being able to walk straight out into stunning countryside, up through the woods, down through the fields, along by the river, out onto the moor. I will miss popping into the shops for a pint of milk and coming back an hour later because I’ve bumped into so many people and been kept chatting. I will miss my outdoor exercise classes – in drizzle, fog and frost, even in snow and cloudburst – Exmoor folk are hardy. And I will miss this gorgeous old house which is right in the centre of this glorious Exmoor town (is it a large village or a small town – I can never decide) and yet remains completely secluded. As James recently pointed out, if there were a Zombie Apocalypse, we would be ideally situated to hunker down and stay safe. Now there’s a good selling point!

My son, however, is not remotely conflicted. The countryside was his playground as a child – yes, we followed all the clichés – wild swimming and picnics by the river; lazy days on the glorious North Devon beaches; building fire-pits and willow huts; larking around with dogs and ponies; hunting for antlers (and finding them); hiking and cycling, canoeing and camping.

But now he’s fifteen, he wants something a bit edgier, something more urban, something more ‘youthful’. His friends, who used to love coming over to build huts and tree-houses, now want to hang out at the shops or go bowling, paintballing and to the cinema. Soon it will be bars and clubs. So, it’s time to go. Time to let him stretch his wings and time for me to snap out of my country fugue. Besides, journalism is changing. I am changing. I need a new challenge.

So. If you know anyone who is keen to try the Good Life on Exmoor, let me know. I’ve tugged together a blog to show a little more of the house so take a look and spread the word. Just make sure you're the 'right type' huh? :-)

http://dulvertonhouse.blogspot.co.uk

Long time, no blog. I’ve been off with the fairies, dreaming, dozing, delegating my life. Now it’s time to wake up. Why do I never follow my own advice? I took a look in my book The Natural Year and there it is…

‘Autumn shouts ‘wake-up’ to the psyche – it’s time to dust yourself off after the languor of summer and take life head on again.’

I’m late, I thought, as I blinked my way into the day (hideously early as always on a school day); September has nearly ended. And, see, there goes my mind again, skittering off on a tangent, now thinking about the song. Flibbertygibbet mind.

I made far more sense when I was younger. J Let me remind myself what I said then…

autumncozy.tumblr.com

‘Neither yin nor yang can hold power over this time of the year – the year is held like scales in perfect balance. This is a transitional time when you need to keep balanced and centred, just like the year itself. But it is also a time when the powers of creation are coming up again – from the clear energy of fire comes the manifestation implied by earth – not just the harvesting of the fields but all kinds of creation, new beginnings, the start of something different. Earth energy can kick-start you into new directions and differing ways of living life.’

Okay.

And how? In practical terms?

‘In the early part of autumn you should begin a warming and toning diet. Shift to wearing light but warm clothes and take oil baths and massages to begin gently to warm the body.’

I can do that.

‘Autumn is a time for storing what is necessary and getting rid of what is no longer needed. It’s a time of clarity; of dumping the dross, of getting rid of things both physical and emotional which no longer have a place in your life. It’s time for a second big clear-out, an ‘autumn-clean’ if you like.’

Hmm.

‘According to Chinese philosophy, if you cling sentimentally to old attachments and desires, you will end up feeling anxiety, grief and a profound feeling of melancholy. These feelings, in turn, will affect your body – predominantly your lungs and large intestine. The result will be flu, colds and a general case of low resistance, of feeling under par. If the problem goes deeper it might bring breathing difficulties, chest pains, skin conditions and other unpleasant results.’

Ouch.

Okay, so time for a clear-out. Some decluttering. A detox. I get it. Care to join me? J

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