An off-grid life

AFTER BUILDING A CABIN ON HIS IRISH SMALLHOLDING, MARK BOYLE MADE THE DECISION TO AVOID TECHNOLOGY, RAISING INTERESTING QUESTIONS ABOUT MODERN LIFE

No running water, no car, no electricity or any of the things it powers: the internet, phone, washing machine, radio or light bulb. Just a wooden cabin, on a smallholding, by the edge of a stand of spruce. I didn’t think of it as ‘giving up’ or ‘living without’ though; phrases that are always in danger of sounding sacrificial, drawing attention to the loss instead of to what might be gained. Throughout most of my life, I chose money and machines, unconsciously choosing to live without the things they replaced. The question, one we all too seldom ask ourselves, is what are we prepared to lose, and what do we want to gain, as we fumble our way through our short, precious lives?

The first thing was to draw up the rules of engagement. It’s not easy to define what constitutes technology and what doesn’t.

Language, fire, a smartphone, an axe – even the pencil I write these words with – could all be described as technology. Where would I draw the line – the Stone Age? The Iron Age? The 18th century? It became an impossible question and the more I reflected, the less important it seemed to find an answer.

Instead I wanted to discover what it might feel like to use only tools and technologies that do not make me beholden to institutions that have no regard for the values on which I wish to live my life. It wasn’t a game to win. My life is prone to the same complexity, compromise, confusion and conflict as the next person’s. My ideals are often one step ahead of my ability to fully embody them, and that is no bad thing. I felt more drawn towards exploring the complexities of simplicity, and less inclined towards being right.

Communication

It has been over two months since I last used a phone, checked email or went online. As I write that sentence, I consider how much my life, and the world around me, has changed in the last 20 years that such a remark is even remotely noteworthy.

I write my replies to the week’s letters every Sunday evening. The following morning I walk my letters, along with the dog, the 12km round trip to the post office. Someone asks me how I have time for such slow travel in the modern world. I explain how, by getting rid of our van, I no longer have to work the two or three months it took me to pay for its purchase, insurance, tax, MOT, fuel and inevitable repairs, and that I certainly don’t spend anything like that amount of time walking or cycling, which I enjoy doing anyway.

The cost of posting the 20 or so letters I currently send each month is equivalent to my old mobile phone bill, and roughly half the cost of an internet connection.

Time

I have no watch, no phone, no clock. But I’m out chopping wood when the postman drives past. That means it’s 9.10am, more or less. My mind knows this. My neighbour strolls down the lane, takes a right turn in the direction of his sister’s house where, every day – Saturdays excluded – he has lunch. That means it’s 1.55pm. I once took great pride in knowing what clock time it was from looking at the position of the sun, but now that knowledge comes back to haunt me. I have this inexplicable urge to spend just one day without reference to numbers or man-made concepts at all. Even one minute. And with that thought I realise just how far I still have to go.

On my way up to give the horses some hay, one of the neighbours reminds me not to forget to put the clocks forward tonight, remarking – as is required by convention – how it will be great to see a stretch in the evenings. It has been a week since I’ve last known what clock time it is. I know it’s Saturday but that’s about it. Tomorrow will be just the same as any other between winter solstice and summer solstice, simply a few minutes longer. But tomorrow will be spring, and that’s a whole other matter.

Food

In a temperate climate, a metal box in a cool, shady place outside works just as well as a white, electrified metal box in the kitchen inside, for half the year at least. My decision to move from a vegan diet to start eating wild meat poses new challenges. But considering that humanity made it as far as the 20th century without an electric fridge or freezer, I’m quietly optimistic. Fish are no problem; they’re small, and so can be eaten by a small community of people over a day or two. Venison, on the other hand, is a different matter. One deer means a lot of meat. The best place to store it is in the bellies of your neighbours. Another option is a smokehouse; it takes me two hours to make (thanks to a Ray Mears design) and costs nothing. It’s big enough to smoke an entire deer.

“I didn’t think of it as ‘living without’, focusing instead on what might be gained”

“Fresh air. Clean water. Food. Companionship. Warmth… Your real needs could not be simpler”

Cleaning

While I want my outdoors to be as wild and rugged as it wants to be, I prefer my indoors to be clean, tidy, calm and in order. It’s only one room, so cleaning is not arduous. I sweep the floor with a wooden stick whose end is tied with a dried plant called broom (where the name comes from). I clean the surfaces with water, and use the waste water for the house plants. I’ve not used detergents or even natural cleaners for over ten years, during which time I’ve also not seen a doctor. Some people use vinegar for cleaning – we make ours from apples – but I prefer to drink it and maintain my health from the inside out.

A friend who is loath to give up their dishwasher is curious how I’m going to wash the dishes without running water or washing-up liquid. With electrically pumped running water on tap, I never bothered to walk to the spring. Now I fetch water using a couple of demijohns and drink from it every day. I take him outside to where I store the wood ash, and mix a little of it with the spring water to make a paste that will effectively be our washing-up liquid. It’s an old camping trick, and it works excellently. After we’ve finished I pour the wood ash water from the bowl among a patch of birches I’ve planted. Ashes to ashes. Full circle. Life.

THE COMPLEXITIES OF SIMPLICITY

My ways are often described as ‘the simple life’. Interpreted one way, it is entirely misleading, as my life is far from simple. It is actually quite complex, but is made up of a thousand small, simple things.

In comparison, my old life in the city was quite simple, but was made up of a thousand small, complex things. The innumerable technologies of industrial civilisation are now so complex they make the lives of ordinary people simple. Too simple. I, for one, got bored doing the same thing day in, day out. With all the websites, vehicles, devices, entertainment, power tools, gizmos, service providers, comforts and necessities surrounding me, I found there was almost nothing left for me to do for myself; except, earn the money that allows me to acquire all the other things.

Interpreted another way, there is a timeless simplicity about my life. I have found that, when you peel off the plastic that industrial society vacuum-packs around you, what remains – your real needs – could not be simpler. Fresh air. Clean water. Real food. Companionship. Warmth. There’s no extravagance, no clutter. Nothing to buy, nothing to be. No frills, no bills. Only the raw ingredients of life, to be dealt with directly, with no middlemen to confuse the matter. Simple. But complex.

Excerpts from The Way Home: Tales From a Life Without Technology by Mark Boyle (Oneworld). He is also the author of The Moneyless Man and lived entirely without money for three years.