A STINT IN RURAL REHAB

Disclaimer: This is the first blog post I ever wrote, and one that started the fire.

I think it’s safe to say that everyone goes through a particularly shitty time in their life, at some point. It would be even safer to say that we go through many shitty times, at many shitty points. If you haven’t gone through one yet, your time will come, friend. Pain and disappointment are as inevitable as joy and good fortune, but you’re never going to know which is coming your way. Think of life as one giant game of Dodgeball, if you will. You can try and duck and dive around the barrage of manure that will be thrown at you throughout your life and keep your hands open for the good pitches, but ultimately life will eventually wallop you right in the bollocks.

Now that that’s out of the way, I can tell you that every crappy cloud has a slightly less crappy silver lining. (There’s a quote for the tombstone, kids) What I’m trying to say is, you get over it. Skin is pretty thick. It takes a heck of a lot to make a permanent scar, and even then there’s plenty more skin left. I have myself recently been wounded by a fairly weighty, metaphorical, rhino-skin ball that has left a sizeable bruise. One of those special ‘it came outta nowhere’ types that smacks you clear across the face, leaving a little rosy puckered imprint on your cheek.

My medicine thus far has been an equal measure of wallowing and distraction, which has managed to successfully return me to a quasi-normal emotional state. An estranged older sibling of the distraction technique is the disappearing act. I’m a big fan of temporarily removing yourself from a stressful situation in order to retain perspective and regain equilibrium. So that’s what I did. I capitalised on the long Easter bank holiday weekend and blissfully inserted myself into the most peaceful, paradisiacal environment I could find.

On Saturday morning I awoke in the early hours, packed my bag and headed to a tiny village in the pastoral Devonshire countryside. Off I went with a trumpety-trump, three hours across on the Great Western Railway to join my best friend at her parent's home just outside of Crediton.

All I had been told at this point was that my friend’s parents bought a house in Devon three years ago, it’s in the middle of an area called ‘bum fuck nowhere’, (you have to accost the conductor and request that the train stops at the station) and I’d be able to eat, drink, generally be merry and stay as long as I wanted. In hindsight I believe my friend gave me as little information as possible, because she wanted to see the look on my face when we pulled into the driveway and my brain exploded. After being collected by her dad in his off-road jeep, we drove down a dirt track through acres of colourful cornfields and picturesque farmland populated with contented cows and horses. As I looked out of the window and basked in the crisp, country breeze a single quote crossed my mind: ‘Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore’.

We pulled up to a row of converted barns named ‘Bullock Barn’ (where they used to keep the bulls) which was comfortably nestled in acres of green pastures, some home to herds of sheep and adorable baby lambs (I later learned not to get too attached), others to breath-taking arrangements of flowers, shrubberies and trees. The house itself conjured pictures of a scene from Little House On The Prairie, minus the shoddy craftsmanship and hay bales. Rose bushes, potted pear trees and ivy coiled themselves around the front door of the enormous building that was in no way overshadowed by the breathtaking nature surrounding it. In fact, the bucolic backdrop only served to intensify the splendor of the house itself.

I took a deep breath of fresh air before stepping into the kitchen of this idyllic structure.

The kitchen itself was charming. Exposed wooden beams and hanging copper fixtures were accented by pale turquoise and cream dining chairs and curtains. The huge silver and marble oven stood as centerpiece of the room, surrounded by distressed cream cabinets filled with fine bone china in floral patterns and various pieces of art depicting stormy tides and pebbled beaches. Kitschy little wooden crates lay on the floor holding muddy outdoor boots - a small symbol of the daily maintenance and loving care that preserves the beauty of the acreage. The room was filling with the heady aroma of herb-crusted lamb, roasting in the oven. After greeting my hosts, I was able to quickly scrape my jaw off the floor before feigning nonchalance and embarking on a tour of the property.

I was escorted through to the pièce de résistance: the living room. I noticed that the fabulous exposed beam detail continued throughout the house, conjuring the feel of some sort of rustic ski lodge. The vast wooden floor was covered with various thick, soft rugs in duck egg blue and navy. Plush armchairs and sofa cushions were covered with hand-woven crochet blankets, carefully arranged around a floor-to-ceiling exposed brickwork feature wall, housing a wrought-iron fireplace. The windowsills were decorated with nascent orange trees and unmistakably homegrown bouquets of tulips, joyfully oversized and bursting with orange, yellow and red tones. The only thing that distinguished the room from one of the perfectly staged interior showrooms you’d see in a Country Living feature spread, was the personal warmth bestowed by numerous family photographs, knick-knacks and affectionately dog-eared paperbacks dotted upon the surfaces. I couldn’t believe my luck at this point.

My tour continued upstairs, where I was shown to my private bedroom, complete with a generous supply of towels and my very own hairdryer. I promptly dumped my over-packed weekend bag. The house was designed so that the living room continued up into the rafters rather than being divided by the second floor. The upstairs landing therefore acted as a balcony bridge from which you could look down and see the lounge below.

After the grand tour of the house, my bestie and I ventured outside for an additional tour of the gardens and grounds and a little sit in the sunshine (in winter coats and sunglasses - it wasn't warm!) A wrap-around porch extended from the chicken coop around the property, adorned with countless potted plants and growing fruit trees. The postcard greenery stretched out as far as the eye could see. Their ‘garden’ per se, featured a lilypad pond at the centre with two little wooden chairs and a table stationed beside it. Further down the estate I was shown to a footbridge over a boisterous babbling brook. Various sites were pointed out to me along the way, such as the impressive new ‘summer house’ that was recently built by her father at the bottom of the garden and fitted with comfy seating and pillows to enjoy when the weather picks up.

And thus my weekend away had started. Whilst the family was aware of my recent, aforementioned emotional slump, it wasn’t brought up during my stay. There was sort of an unspoken agreement to not talk about it unless I brought it up myself. Instead I was treated to three days of delicious feasts of roast chicken and lamb with seasonal vegetables, barbecued meat from the village butcher with salad and antipasti, an assortment of cheeses from the local delicatessen paired with homemade chutney and scrambled eggs from the hens in the coop outside (housed in pastel blue shells) married with fresh seeded bread and homemade strawberry jam. In between stuffing my face like I just got out of prison, I was offered an unlimited supply of wine, gin and tonic and chocolate. Don’t worry; I went for a run around the field…a bit. One time.

Aside from a brief trip into the city of Exeter, I spent the entire weekend in the house, curled up by the fire reading a book and enjoying an alcoholic beverage. My friend recognized that the time for talking about what happened had passed and I just needed to step away from my environment and chill the fuck out.

They say the best remedy for sadness is a shoulder to cry on. That a problem shared is a problem halved yada yada yada. I move to motion that sometimes the remedy for sadness is quite simply good food, good booze and good company. To put yourself in a position where you can step back and enjoy the cliche that is 'you' time, away from the anxiety attached to the memory of your sadness. For a brief period I stepped away from my ‘old’ life and lived in the moment, enjoying the beauty and simplicity of nature. I should be clear that I wouldn’t recommend pretending everything is fine and dandy in these sorts of situations for any lengthy period. Denial is a pretty harmful survival instinct. Make sure you feel what you’re feeling, accept it and move on. One day at a time. People say time is a healer. I say a trip to Devon also doesn’t hurt.