BACK TO NATURE
An escape from the rat race – that’s what the couple were dreaming of when they embarked on their big adventure. But in this extract from her book Miriam Lancewood reveals how daunted she initially felt when they arrived in their New Zealand wilderness retreat and she realised how isolated they were. No phones or deadlines or people to distract them – just endless days stretching ahead of them with almost nothing to do.
Peter turned round and put my arms over his shoulders. “Now it’s just us,” he said, embracing me. I took a deep breath. “I feel like we’ve finally come home.” Peter nodded. “This is the world we were all born into.”
I took his hand and looked out at the valley and forest all around us.
“Amazing feeling, to be so alone in such an isolated place, isn’t it?” I said. The nearest house was a good three days’ walk from here. Back at the hut I rekindled the fire and made tea, which I carried over to Peter, who was sitting on a rock near the river. “This is absolutely beautiful, isn’t it?” I looked at the crystal-clear water that cascaded from the mountains. Yet after my initial elation an uncomfortable feeling was creeping to the surface, a kind of realisation that sent a flash of panic through my body. It was the one thought that clashed with all my fantasies of living peacefully in the wilderness: the “what now?” thought. What was I going to do next?
I thought of things to do and remembered I hadn’t seen the toilet facilities. The long-drop was built 70m from the hut. It was a deep hole with a wooden structure on top; the only thing about it that resembled a modern toilet was the white seat. A soggy roll of paper sat in the corner. I lifted the lid and looked into the hole. The smell was so horrible I quickly closed the lid. If I sit on that toilet with the door closed I’ll be suffocated, I thought.
It was worse than I expected and I forced myself not to think of the months ahead. I jumped into action instead. I collected a bucket of water from the river, found an old towel and started washing the grimy walls, dirty windows and even the stains on the mattresses.
Several times Peter offered to help me but, dreading the moment when all the chores were done, I preferred to do everything on my own. I needed to fill up the empty day. This was the one thing all our hiking trips and training hadn’t prepared me for: boredom. I joined Peter, who was calmly reading an old newspaper in the sun.
“I think it’ll be a bit of an adjustment in the beginning, don’t you?” I sounded far more coherent than I felt.
“Oh yes, a major adjustment,” Peter nodded. “The mind needs to calm down. It could take days to ease into the rhythm of this place. Maybe weeks.”
His suggestion was that we just go through the boredom and restlessness and do nothing for a while. Nothing. That was the last thing I wanted to do. Nothing meant boredom, the dreaded void, horrible emptiness. Nothing was the unknown and I’d discovered I was afraid of it – this was the fear I’d have to face in the many weeks to come.