Notes from a Cabin

On the quiet art of retreating

I want to be quite clear when I tell you that as I begin writing this essay, I am sat on a veranda, overlooking a wooded valley, watching the sun sink above the hazy, distant mountains. This is the fifth sunset I have witnessed from this spot; each one different from the last, and each one filling the late evening with extraordinary light and gentle entertainment.

My view, now, as the sun’s sharp disc becomes blood orange, is one of layers. The near tops of trees, lush and crowding, green against the haze of those which crown the hills beyond, and again, paler, the ones beyond that. The furthest layer is not the mountains, whose purple shape is cradled in the long view of the valley, but in the clouds. Thick, low peaks adding their shape to the picture, and easily mistaken, if you didn’t know the place, for another ridge of land beyond. It’s behind these that the sun begins to disappear. Slowly at first and then, it seems, all at once. I can hear the munching jaws of the sheep in the field below. Almost immediately, with the light departed, the air has gained a presence on my skin.

You don’t always need the grandeur of wild Canadian backcountry to find escape. Sometimes, you just need to tuck yourself into the soft green folds of Wales.

I arrived here on Monday, later than I had hoped and a little flushed from the long and interrupted drive. But I was met with the Welsh rainforest: a sunlit bounty of wet, heavy rain which made everything feel good again.

This place, recently opened up by the writer and creative coach Julia Forster – someone I had known by friendly email for numerous years – exceeded my expectations. Perched at the top of this little valley, with no dwellings or roads or power lines in sight, you feel like you could be so much further from everything than you really are. There is a small river running at the bottom of the hill, adding a wet, white noise to the place.  And often, when the low sky has emptied out its rain, clouds are left behind here. Smoke which lingers in the nooks of the land; gentle ghosts moving slowly on their way.

The effect of the valley, when I arrived, was immediate. Though just three miles from the nearest town, Machynlleth, I was four hours from my usual habits and responsibilities. The peace of the place was like a physical shock to the system, but the cabin itself was also special: it had been built on this slope for exactly the purpose I needed. I knew it as soon as I stepped inside, enveloped in the quiet of its close walls. This was a place for writing.