Hope and healing in Galloway
In Devorgilla Days Kathleen Hart documents the story of her fresh beginning in a cottage in Wigtown. It’s never too late to start again says the author who beat breast cancer twice before relaunching her life
Not so long ago and far away, I lived a different life. An empty, anxious existence, bumping aimlessly along, ricocheting between chaos and calamity, I had no plan and aspired to very little.
My children had flown the nest, which happened to coincide with me becoming a Woman of a Certain Age, no longer young, not quite old, but feeling swamped by a cloak of invisibility and irrelevance. My greatest ambition centred around acquiring the latest handbag. Life was washing over me, and I was slowly sinking beneath the flotsam and jetsam of unfulfilled promise and what might have been.
I was woken with a jolt from this downward spiral by a letter from the breast clinic, asking me to return immediately for further investigations following a checkup. Years of chronic illness and prolonged spells in various hospitals ensued. I was very sick, my body was under siege and the treatment was relentless. I stared death in the face, twice, and prepared to meet my maker, twice. But somehow I managed to summon the strength and determination to get well, to survive.
The recovery was long, painful and monotonous. Day after day with nothing else to do but think. Think about the past. It occurred to me I had very little to show for all my years on the planet. Think about the future. Drastic changes would have to be made if I was to leave my old life in Cheshire behind. I needed a new start, a fresh beginning, somewhere to recuperate and regroup, or as my consultant put it, somewhere to ‘rest and digest’.
The time had come to dance to the beat of a different drum. I began to draft a plan, recalling the things in life that had once made me happy, making lists and poring over maps. Browsing online, I stumbled upon a small cottage hundreds of miles away, on the coast, in Scotland’s book town, Wigtown. From the advert in the brochure, it looked rather sad and forlorn, but I just had an inkling we’d perfect for each other. We could get better together. My friends however, thought I was mad. What was I thinking? What would I do there? Not my Instagram friends, though; they thought it was a marvellous idea. ‘Posh, you’re living my dream’, was the rallying cry from Toronto to Tokyo. This is what I hear over and over, from those who follow me on my @Poshpedlar account, where I now post pictures and tales of my life in Scotland.
I set up the page whilst recovering in hospital, curating beautiful images and writing encouraging words. There was an astonishing reaction to the gallery; I couldn’t believe it – thousands and thousands of people from all over the world willing me on and wishing me well. And now I share my Devorgilla adventures with them: the cottage, community, landscape and nature that have helped heal me, given me a sense of purpose, and restored my sense of self and my happiness.
I arrived on the Machar’s peninsula on a fresh spring day, just me and a dozen boxes, and put the key in the door of the ‘sugar-cube’ wreck I had named Devorgilla Cottage (pronounced Dev-a-gilla). Named after a 13th-century Scottish princess, known for her strength and resilience, and in her own right, one of the most powerful women of the age.
She had defied the conventions of medieval Scotland, was a mother of ten, and a generous benefactor, building Devorgilla Bridge, which provided a vital link between Galloway and the outside world, and founding Balliol College, Oxford. She also founded Sweetheart Abbey, Galloway, where she was buried beside her beloved husband, whose heart she carried with her in a silver casket for many years. I found her story inspiring, and hoped some of her moxie would rub off on me.
The cottage, my sanctuary, is small and cosy, with thick stone walls, painted white. There are two snug bedrooms under the eaves, where swallows make their summer nest, a tiny kitchen, and a sitting room with open fire and a window out onto the lane, which winds its way down to the old harbour. Passers-by are keen to stop and chat and share their anecdotes of my wee house, many telling me they were the born in the cottage.
Other callers arrive with gifts, a slab of fruit cake one day, duck eggs the next. More often than not I arrive home to find some generous offering left on the doorstep. This unnerved me when I first arrived, caught me off guard, things like this didn’t happen back in my old life, and I’m still to become accustomed to the kindness of the folk whom I now count as friends and neighbours.
Life in Scotland is simpler, pared down, soothing. I spend some time, most days, in the Bird Room on the top floor of the town’s imposing Gothic library, taking in the view, the bay where I swim, the bird reserve, rivers, forests, castles and waterfalls, and encouraged by my daughter, I write – just a few words each day in my gratitude journal, after time, these few words evolving into my memoir: Devorgilla Days. Filling the blank pages has become part of the healing process.
I write about joining the West Galloway Bee Club as a novice bee keeper, learning the tricks of the trade alongside my mentor Fred. Together we visit the apiary each week, inspecting the hives, which are dotted amongst an orchard of ancient Galloway Pippin apple trees.
The orchard overlooks the Mull of Galloway where I swim in the bay, whenever the wind sweeps in
Mine is a story about uncovering the things that really matter, and discovering what makes us feel alive
from the east. Sea swimming makes my soul sing and my spirit soar, healing, soothing, and invigorating, the rhythm of the Solway tides have become my linchpin. I write about the characters of Wigtown, Ruth the bookseller, who was a sheriff back in the day, and specialises in crime and tartan noir, Sandy the tattooed poet, who updates me on mermaids, martyrs and the migration of the newly arrived orca pod, and Scad, owner of The Biggest Little Store in Town, with whom I discuss the weather and local chit chat. I write about all the hobbies I am now able to enjoy, from birdwatching to stargazing, and I can’t wait for Norma to pick up her accordion again at Scottish county dancing.
Writing about my illness and how I found the resolve to heal. Writing about finding Devorgilla Cottage, Wigtown and the wonderful community that welcomed me into its care and about the beautiful Machars peninsula and the adventures I have along the way has helped me reflect on my story: that of someone who had everything, yet nothing, and who started again, later in life, with the clock ticking. Mine is a story about uncovering the things that really matter, and discovering what makes us feel alive. It is a story about finding that inner strength and resilience, and never giving up hope. It is never too late to find peace and contentment.